As Black As A Name?
by One Wish Magic
Summary: A family both torn apart and influenced by Voldermort. Includes moments from the lives of Bellatrix, Narcissa, Andromeda Regulus and Sirius. But were they as black as thier name suggests, or did they have other, deeper rooted motives for thier actions?
1. Bellatrix

**_Hey :) This story is back. It has been amended and edited and re-read, i am happier now than i was with it before, but i always think my work could be better so i dunno :S I am very dissapointed in myself with the amount of errors i found in my own story despite proof reading. I have ensured a much more thorough check this time._**

**_I cannot remember my original notes for this chapter, but if i think some up they will be duely noted, any questions, ask away and i shall do my best to answer them._**

**_I do not own Harry Potter or its characters, all belong to Mrs Rowling._**

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**Bellatrix.**

_For the only one she ever truly loved; Voldermort.  
__The one she needed. _

As her crushed lungs expanded to allow oxygen to pass through them, and the pressure upon her body subsided, Bellatrix's feet did not make contact with the ground as she had expected. Instead she felt herself being repelled backwards, the vice like grip releasing her arm. Her body coursing through the air until it came into contact with something solid, unmovable. For a moment, there was no pain, but when the slightly liquefied feeling that sometimes accompanied side-along apperation wore off, it came in sickening waves as constant as the ocean.

Voldermort stood mere feet away from her, his red slit like eyes roaming around the room but never falling upon his most doting servant. He whipped around, his long black robes sweeping across the cold granite floor, disturbing the dust that had settled there. In a misted cloud the colour of sand it blew backwards finally coming to rest again, like a concealing blanket, upon Bellatrix; who still did not get up.

All around master and servant, the room was full of small _pops, _followed shortly afterwards by the appearances of other hooded and cloaked wizards.

Death eaters that had either fled upon the arrival of Dumbledore, or had successfully evaded capture by The Order and The Minestry; all returned to their master now. Eyes searched for mirrored pairs, each shining with uncertainty like betraying beacons in the blackness and cloaks rustled with skittish movements that were neither advances nor retreats. Not one of them however, dared to approach him.

Never once did the Dark Lord turn to regard his followers assembled behind him, or give any indication of acknowledgment towards their presence. When his steps halted and the hem of his cloak came to rest completely still on the marble floor, he finally addressed them;

"Leave us. Your incompetence is embarrassing to me." His voice was nothing more than a hiss said around barred teeth.

The room cleared almost momentarily, a collective _pop_ announced five plus simultaneous disapperations. Others fled through the doors, on parallel sides of the room, their ability to apperate clearly forgotten in their hurry to escape the Dark Lords wrath. One burly figure however, stayed. His stance brave, even if his voice were not when he spoke;

"Master -"

"Crucio!" The venom interjected into those three syllables was unnerving when compared to the almost lethargic flick of the white, emaciated wrist the proceeded it.

The figure screamed and writhed in pain, falling to the ground where his body continued to convulse. His hood, which had been up, until that point concealing his face, fell away. Dolohov.

Voldermort watched intently as every inch of Dolohov's body twitched, as if the image pacified him, as if every scream that broke unwilling thought the Death Eaters lips somehow dissipated his anger.

_Idiot_, thought Bellatrix, gaining a sadistic pleasure from her fellow Death Eaters torture, she uttered a giddy, mirthful laugh even in the face of her own impending punishment.

After what seemed like an age, filled with Dolohov's wild screams of pain and continuous thrashing, which preceded Bellatrix's manic peels of pleasured hysteria. Voldermort seemed to grow tired of the sport. He effortlessly flicked his wand and Dolohov became completely still, his harsh, labored breathing and masked whimpers still echoing around the cavernous room and Bellatrix's gusto dying in her throat. All was tensely quiet for a few moments, before master called for his servant;

"Bellatrix," his tone was harsh. The female Death Eater recoiled as if she had been struck.

He spoke no further words, but his commands were quite clear. Slowly and purposely she got to her feet.

There were twenty-five paces that separated her from her master. Twenty-five, and each one she took felt like she was walking towards her own death sentence. Sealing a fate that could not be undone.

She counted each one as she took it, ticking it off upon an unseen list, as the numbers frittered away before she could stop them. He tapped a long white, skeletal finger against the hard stone surface of the chair. It made gentle rhythm; _thump, thump, thump_, that echoed like the beating of a heart in the silence. Becoming louder and quicker as his impatience grew.

Not once as she approached did his expression soften from its tautened grimace of anger, the wasted skin stretched so tightly over the structure of his skull and so white that it appeared, at first glance, to be a none existent feature. Fear flowed through her, poisoning her, seeping doubt into her mind. She had failed.

She arrived in front of him all too soon. He sat majestically upon his throne carved from stone, and even in the semi darkness of the room, his white skin seemed to glow.

She threw herself completely at his mercy, collapsing onto her knees at his feet.

"Please, my lord -"

"Silence!" He cut across her, the end of the word becoming no more than a dangerous hiss.

"Don't beg Bellatrix. It only succeeds in making you look even more pathetic," he continued coolly, almost mockingly.

Slowly, she got to her feet, staring up longingly at the pale white face, skull like, with two red slits for eyes, and vertical pupils. She mapped his features again, lest she should forget, admiration on the verge of infatuation stirring in her heart. Her breath catching in her throat before disappearing from her body entirely, his words stinging deeper than rightfully they should have.

"Don't you have something you wish to say to me Bellatrix? A 'thank you, my Lord,' perhaps?" He asked smoothly, his voice like liquid fire flowing around her, deadly captivating, but false, endangering trickery.

"Thank you my lord! For a moment there, forgive me for saying so," as she spoke hurriedly, her eyes remained downcast and her head bowed.  
"I thought that you were going to leave me." She gave a small laugh, that died all to soon in her throat as he spoke;

"I should have."

The forced smile faded instantaneously from her lips and her eyes went wide with horror, there was a moment of stunned silence as her world shifted. Her face a statued portrayal of anguished betrayal.

"Noooo!" She cawed harshly, dragging the single syllable out for as long as her breath would allow. Her hand gripping at her chest.

He waited for her to draw her breath again, and then cut her off when she opened her mouth to speak.

"But me being a merciful lord, I spared your worthless life. You are even less use to me dead than you are alive," he said simply.

Her expression of horror turned to joy and gratification immediately, her mind just as easily disregarding her previous hurt.

"Oh thank you my lord! Thank you! Thank -"

"Don't grovel," his voice flowed with anger now, "You are not so weak as to fall at my feet and simper your worthless gratitude. You are however, so weak as to let six adolescent wizards, not even of age, evade you. Outwitting you at every chance, out maneuvering you at every opportunity, and then, finally allowing them to take and destroy would should have been mine!"

She hadn't heard the incantation, but when a beam of light hit her squarely in the chest, she felt her own body convulse, in the same way as Dolohov's had done minutes previous. Suddenly, for a singular moment torture seemed to lose it's enjoyment. She was playing a dangerous and misguided game with her affections, and her fingers which were placed to close to the fire, were about to get burnt.

Every inch of her body stung with fire and pain, her muscles contracted against her will, ensuring a pain that only ever intensified the longer the spell wore on. How was it in this instance, that the pain she had loved to inflict so much upon others, was now the pain that felt like it was killing her. She wondered, vaguely, for a second; was this how Frank and Alice Longbottom had felt before they had succumbed to their madness. That thought alone, caused a ghost of a smile to pass across her lips, which grew, despite the pain, into manic laughter that she sustained until all breath was stolen from her and she returned to enduring the convulsions in a well mastered silence.

Voldermort was speaking again, his voice low, almost as if her were speaking to himself;

"How could this happen? I should be hearing it's words at this very moment."

He stood abruptly, advancing on his servant. With a lazy flick of his wand, he ended the spell that bound her.

Bellatrix lay completely still, breathing deeply and allowing the pain to recede and the memory to fade. She watched as her master approached her. His black cloak billowing around him, presenting an even more ominous figure of power.

He stood above her, his voice low, dangerous and mocking at the same time.

"How is it, Bellatrix, that my finest Death Eaters were foiled by none other than Harry Potter? I brought him to you on a silver platter, all you had to do was wait for him to take the prophecy and then intercept it. What was so difficult?"

"I tired my lord!" she choked out desperately between huge gasping breaths. "He wasn't alone!" .

"A minor inconvenience," he continued flatly, "I would have thought my Death Eaters more than a match for him and his friends. Perhaps I was wrong to assume so, perhaps I placed a little too much faith in the ability of those who serve me. I won't be making that mistake again."

"No! The Order of the Phoenix! Dumbledore!" Her eyes widened in fear.

"Could have all been so easily avoided had it not been for your incompetence," he spat the last word as if tasting something repugnant in his mouth.

"Master, I tried," she whimpered, repeating her earlier pleas, "I tried to retrieve the prophecy, but Lucius -"

Her body began to convulse and she writhed in silent pain once again.

"No Bellatrix! It was your inability to keep your temper under control that lost me the prophecy when it was almost within my grasp." He paused for a moment before letting a smile play upon his lips. "Lucius will get his comeuppance however, don't you worry, my vicious one."

He watched as she twitched on the floor at his feet, her face contorted with pain as every muscle in her body contracted. He pushed the spell harder, watching as a single tear fell, washing the dust from her cheek in it's track. It was not physical pain however, that was its cause, but something infinitely deeper.

"Are you not going to scream?" He asked menacingly.

"No," came her strangled reply.

"How very brave of you," he mocked, "So valiant in the face of death, just like your dear cousin."

"You won't kill me," she said, with as much conviction in her own words as she could muster .

"No," he said smoothly, a tone unbefitting of the subject matter. "I still have use for you yet. But one day, your usefulness to me may run out."

Her eyes went wide at the very thought, but something else nagged away at her.

"How did you know? How did you know about Sirius?"

"My dear Bellatrix. Lord Voldermort knows all. Besides, who else would be so foolish as to kill for something they want and still not get it," he laughed. A chillingly menacing laugh that seemed to turn Bellatrix very blood to ice.

"But you said," she accused, her voice steady even if her hand shook, as she pointed an accusing finger at her master from her position on the floor.

"You _told_ me, that to gain something that you want when someone stands in your way, you need only to remove those who oppose you."

Voldermort's cruel thin white lips twisted up into a smile.

"Yes, those who oppose me." He waited patiently as to let the truth of what he was saying sink in. Bellatrix eyes shone with a gleam of realization. He waited until she was about to speak; and then cut her off, sneering.

"What did you think you would achieve by killing you dear cousin? The Black family Heritage?" His laugh was cruel, merciless.

"That died tonight, along with dear Sirius Black, the last heir to 'The Nobel and Most Ancient House of Black'. You killed your own cousin for something that would never be yours in the first place. It's almost poetic."

She didn't speak, she couldn't. His laughter snaked over her like a rope, chocking her, stealing her very breath. Her eyes were wide, manic with an unknown fear, which stirred within her very soul. A coldness seemed to spread over her and settle in the pit of her stomach. Her body felt like a lead weight, her head too heavy to lift and her arms and legs strangely detached. Her mind spun in dizzying circles that robbed her of all thought and logic and seemed to make the world turn in on itself, dislodging every foundation.

He was kneeling down at her side, his white, skull like face only mere inches away from her own, his lips twisted into a smile.  
"What is is that you want from me, dear Bella?" He asked smoothly.

Her sunken eyes glistened up at him from within their surrounding voids of blackness and her lips pressed together in a thin white line. Her singular weakness? Him.

"All I ever want is to please you, my lord," she whispered her reply.

"Perhaps," he mused aloud, "Or perhaps there is something more that you don't care to admit."

He extended a bony white finger and slowly brushed it against her hollowed cheek, the movement burned like bare flame, but still she did not cry out in pain, nor even call a tear to the corner of her eye. Both reflex reactions had long since been lost from her.

His voice was different when he spoke again, all sense of smoothness gone, replaced by a harder tone that was both sneering and jubilant;  
"Lord Voldermort knows all, Bella. Never forget that."

His laughter was callous. It echoed around that dark cavernous room, repetitively lashing her with wave after wave of sound.

Even after Voldermort had disapperated, the sound of it still rung in her ears like a ghost of remembrance. She was alone in the darkness, it seemed that as soon as he was able, Dolohov had disapperated. But she couldn't, the Cruciatus curse that she had endured for so long had left her weakened.

She lay completely motionless, too weak to move, but to ashamed to simply lay there, It was a vicious circle, she was openly mocked and manipulated by Voldermort but bound by her infatuation, obsession and admiration for him to serve loyally and willingly. It was a chain that she was unable to break and one that she would never try to.

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Bellatrix paused for a second at the heavy wooden door, her hand hesitated just a few centimeters above the bronze handle. Her fingers clenching and unclenching in indecision as her mind deliberated whether of not to reach the extra inch or so.

Footsteps and conversation from behind caused her reflex's to override her thoughts, and spurred her hand into lurching involuntary forward to grip the handle. She cursed silently as she turned it, opening the door to the dimly lit room.

Many of the places at the long ornate table in the center of the room were already filled, their occupants; silent. Her eyes wandered quickly over all those seated, accounting for all the empty places and their positions on the table. One in particular caught her attention; on the Dark Lords immediate right, a placement that would cause anyones heart to swell with pride should they be appointed it. She saw herself seated there in her minds eye, the gaze of each of her fellow Death Eaters regarding her with jealousy, envy and hatred as she stepped up to claim what was rightfully hers. Such a blissfully satisfying depiction.

For a minute, the figure revolving slowly above the table, suspended in thin air, in what looked to be a state of unconsciousness; caught her gaze, before it fell over, and rested upon Narcissa and the rest of her family. They were seated just over half way down the table, their eyes averted from it's head as if afraid to look upon the person situated there.

Narcissa returned her sisters gaze for a moment, her blue eyes steely.

"Bellatrix," the voice that called her was low, almost thoughtful, she immediately looked to the head of the table. Her masters face shrouded in shadow, the light from the fire behind him hiding everything but his silhouette from sight. Her eyes searched hungrily in the darkness.

"There. Next to Narcissa." She blinked as one would after being forced to abandon a particularly enjoyable day dream, to return to the real world where things were vastly different.

Her eyes once again darted to her sister, before finally falling upon the chair next to her. Her beating heart seemed to fall into her stomach and come to rest there.

At first, she thought about arguing, but when her master turned away from her and addressed the Death Eater on his immediate left – who's face she couldn't see either – all protests died in her throat. His disregard for her long and loyal service disarming her.

The scene in her mind sorely deflated in the face of reality so stark in comparison.

She walked slowly to her seat, feeling many pairs of eyes watching her, she kept her own averted to the floor as she watched her feet carry her forward. She knew they were laughing at her. The shame of it.

She took her seat, grudgingly, her sister stiff beside her. Bellatrix glanced once more up at the revolving figure above her, but it held no interest to her.

She turned her gaze sidewards and stared wistfully to the head of the table. The distance between her and her master could not have been more than six meters, but it might as well have been the length of the barren lands of the Sahara desert. For, at this moment, she had never felt further from him. Need clenched in the pit of her stomach Just like oxygen, he was vital to her existence.

How had she fallen so far from favor? How had the mistakes she had made cost her more than anyone else? How had she come to be seated so low? How now, had she came to be mocked by those who had once cowered in her shadow? She didn't understand. In the old days of glory, she had been the best. There there had been no-one higher than her, save the Dark Lord himself. Her lamentations stirred within her a profound longing for what had been lost. How so much had changed ...

... and how so much could change again.

Too much weight on a Hippogriffs back and it would surly break. She smiled slightly, the metal image soothed her somewhat. There was still time. The smallest of cracks in the wall that barred her way, and she would slither through it, like the prodigal serpent. To power, glory and favor once more.

The heavy wooden door that lead into the room was opened swiftly and almost silently as two figures entered. The first and slightly smaller of the two had sallow skin and long greasy hair that hung either side of his face like curtains. The second taller, with blunt features.

"Yaxley. Snape," the Dark Lord addressed them right away. Bellatrix's face fell in realization.

"You are very nearly late," very nearly, but not quite; thought Bellatrix sourly. If she had only stopped for a second to listen to the voices and realized, she could have hindered their way somewhat. Of all the rotten luck, that could have been her first opportunity. It would not do for someone as high in favor as Snape to be late.

"Severus, here," Voldermort indicated to the chair on his immediate right.

Bellatrix almost chocked on the air she was inhaling and it took all of her self control to stop her yelling out. Her chair! That chair was by any right hers! She was the Dark Lord's most loyal servant! Her! Where had Snape been while she rotted in Azkaban for her loyalty? Playing Dumbledore's Pet! He was an undeserved recipient of such a high honor! What was his greatest sacrifice for the Dark Lord? Nothing!

The utter contempt she felt for Severus Snape at that moment made her blood boil and caused her entire body to quake with repressed anger. She thought of him just a year ago, in the dank, darkness and grime of Spinners End where he belonged. The _only_ place he belonged. That thought pacified her. He had no rightful place at this table, and certainly not her place! He was in a dangerous position now, he had revealed himself, in one fell movement he had made himself many enemies of former friends, well, for acquaintance sake anyway. They would catch up to him in the end. He would be dead, if not by her own murderous hands that were all to eager to ensnare the usurper, then by someone else's.

She stared at her hands, clenched tightly in her lap, they were shaking with suppressed rage. She was consumed, her thoughts hell bent on finding a way, a door, a hole, a gap, anything. There was no room for rational or logical thought in her mind. Only three words spun around inside her head, the only three that right now mattered to her. Power. Glory. Favor. Her mind repeated them over and over again like a chant to bring down her wrath upon her enemies.

"Yaxely – beside Dolohov." She paused her maddening repetition for a moment. She couldn't help it. A smile stretched across her face. At least Yaxley was doing about as well for himself as she was.

She did not listen to any further exchange, conversation nor information. The pounding of her accelerated heart that echoed in her ears as it worked twice as hard to pump blood around her body, seemed to drown out all other sound. She could have been left alone in the room and noticed no difference, for although she was surrounded by her kind, she felt so alone. Isolated and cut off, from the one she loved most.

It was then that a scoffing voice caught her attention and held it, as always it would;

"Give you my wand, Lucius? _My_ wand?" A couple of Death Eaters around her snickered, and she did too, without fully being aware of what she was laughing at, but it did sound utterly preposterous. The Dark Lord, give up his wand!

Her mind went blank again, the dull thudding in her ears consuming all, and the slow rumbling sound that came from the same three words being repeated over and over again in barely above a whisper returning to lull her.

"Why do the Malfoys look so unhappy with their lot? Is my return, my rise to power, not the very thing they have professed to desire for so many years?" It was his voice once again that broke through her reverie, returning her to face the harshness or reality.

"Of course my lord." Bellatrix watched as one of Lucius shaking hands reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow.

"We did desire it – we do."

No! Lucius was going to make them pay, each blundering word that was uttered from his mouth moved her further and further from any hopes of redeeming herself. She wasn't prepared to pay for his mistakes as well as her own. She would rise in the Dark Lords favor once again. It was all simply a matter of time.

Before she knew it, her mouth was open, spilling words that she never remembered herself thinking to say. Although her voice was constricted with emotion, it gave away nothing of the hysteria within. She leaned forward as she spoke, her desire for closeness domineering above all else.

"My Lord. It is an honor to have you here, in our family's house. There can be no higher pleasure." Every word she spoke was said with alarming truth.

"No higher pleasure," a thrill shot through her as he repeated her exact words."That means a great deal Bellatrix, from you."

At once her mania dissipated and she was able to live again, she drank greedily at his words, as one would draw a great breath after being starved of oxygen for so long.

He cheeks took on a pale pinkish hue as she blushed and her eyes welled with tears of sheer delight. Her heart seemed to have re-affirmed its rightful place in her chest now, beating there contentedly, almost purring. It was like a shadow, a faint reflection of how things used to be. A minute glow from the depths of a black lake, shining brightly for a second before the black oppressive depths claimed it's light once again.

"Not even compared with the happy event that, I hear, has taken place on your family this week?" His voice was low and smooth but carried a sense of danger that stuck warning bells in her mind. His comment left her confused but his voice left her wary. Of course her wariness paled in comparison to her desire for her masters conversation.

"I don't know what you mean, my Lord."

"I'm talking about your niece Bellatrix. And yours Lucius and Narcissa. She just married the werewolf Remus Lupin. You must be so proud."

Nothing seemed louder to her than the raucous laughter that erupted at her expense in that instant. It was especially unnerving when compared to the almost deadly silence that had seemed to have overtaken her. She did not dare raise her ashen face from it's bowed position. She knew the gleeful looks upon her fellow Death Eaters faces, she did not have to see them. She did however, turn to her master, shouting above the commotion.

She did not know what she was shouting, for an unprecedented rage of humiliation took hold of her, leaving no space for actual thought. Her master did not pay heed to her as she all but relapsed such was her delicate and shaken mentality.

"What say you Draco? Will you babysit the cubs?"

The laughter mounted once again.

Bellatrix had not even been aware that her nephew was in attendance up until this point, up until the Dark Lord himself had singled him out for ridicule. Her eyes had only ghosted upon him before, completely disregarding his presence. Now that she looked upon the face that reminded her so much of his father, she could see that under his fearful expression, the look in his sparkling eyes reflected hers, embarrassment.

She saw the exchanged glances between mother, father and son. Draco's terrified look, Lucius' determination not to meet anyones eyes and Narcissa's ever so slight shake of her head. Bellatrix wondered with vague annoyance why they would not look upon the face of their master.

If one thing could be said about her, Bellatrix thought with a smile, it was that her fall from favor was neither as steep or as rocky as Lucius' and regrettably, the rest of his family's was. She would have pitied her sister – if pity was not an alien concept to her – for the amount of incompetence that the man she loved showed. And Draco too, for having said man as a father and role model.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of ridicule, Voldermort spoke again, causing silence to reign with two syllables; "Enough."

The laughter died at once, for which she was grateful. Her master spoke again, this time his voice was low and easy, like water flowing over pebbles in a gentle river.

"Many of our oldest family trees become a little diseased over time." Bellatrix gazed at him, her eyes wide and sparkling, her breath catching in her throat . He was throwing her a lifeline as she drowned in the sea of her mistakes. She grasped it with both hands, promising to herself that she would never let go. She would do whatever she had to, for if not, the consequences were almost to horrid to imagine. Herself, considered even lower than Lucius. Unbearable.

"You must prune your, must you not, to keep it healthy? Cut away those parts that threaten the health of the rest?"

Her eyes swam as she fought back the tears of gratitude. Her master, her Lord, her savior. And save her he did, he was offering her openly the chance that she needed. The chance that could grant her ultimate favor, gain her back her rightful place in the hierarchy and much more besides. This was it, the now or the never

"Yes, my Lord. At first chance."

An idea previously incubated in her mind began to weave a web of death. Blood purity, that's what she prided herself on, another pedestal of importance that brought her above her fellow wizards and witches. The noble name of Black became more blackened with each passing generation, and that was something she was determined to rectify.

She would have glory again, the recognition she deserved. She could not fail, her heart ached painfully at the very though. She had only ever wanted one thing, and one thing alone, to be favorite, to be top. It was more than admiration for her master that spurred her on, it was need. A need that overshadowed all else such was its consumption. A need that would kill her to satisfy and kill her not to gain, but a need that had done, and would continue to plague her existence, right up until the very end, for it was for him, and him alone, that she gave up her life.

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**_Thank you very much for reading :)_**

**_Reviews are appreciated if you wish to give them._**

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	2. Narcissa

**_Chapter two :) _**

**_I have tried to present Narcissa as a stronger charater than my original version depicted. I realized my mistake. Also any referal to "halfbreeds" are used only in relations to Narcissa's thoughts and are not my personal opinion._**

**_Can't remember my notes for this chapter either :')_**

**_Still i am not in possession of ownage for Harry Potter._**

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**Narcissa **

_For the one with whom her true loyalties lay.  
For the one's she never gave up on**.**_

Narcissa Malfoy stood alone upon the familiar darkened landing, which in her mind seemed to represent a place of fraudulence, speaking a falsehood safety. The only light present in the silent manor came in the form of silvery moonlight which poured in through the open window on the second floor. That singular door stood ajar, allowing the light to filter into the hall, combating the thick darkness without much avail.

If glanced upon, the scene would only show one person, his sleeping form illuminated. The silvery light dancing upon the tips of his white blond hair, his pale face peaceful. Narcissa stayed in the midst of the darkness, her eyes every now and again wandering to the sleeping boy; but on the whole, she kept them averted, concentrating on the close darkness that was both soothing and oppressing.

The unnatural darkness seemed to make things less real, which is why she suck solitude within it.

It was not false, it was not demanding, it did not expect anything from her, it just simply was. A natural shielding blanket that allowed clarity. A place where she did not have to struggle each minute to carry on as normal, but at the same time, a place that hid her feelings from anyone but herself.

Her breath hitched, catching in her throat and her hands clenched tighter around the worn piece of paper contained within them, scarring rough indentations into its thinned surface, subsequently, her thoughts spiraled into a painful directive depth. The letter had been unfolded and refolded so many times in the two days since her reception of it, that its printed words were now barely legible. She had mapped its ever detail in her mind, able to recall it instantaneously, to regard once again the quivering letters which appeared in constant danger of simply vanishing, their tails seemingly withering before her eyes, losing the will to exist any longer.

A hole had been worn into the center of the paper, a seemingly fitting representation of Narcissa's state, both emotionally and physically. Lucius existed at the center point of the void, which had so recently been wrenched wider to incorporate another, the ragged edges of which, now seemed impossible to ever mend again.

His handwriting had changed since she has last laid eyes upon him, she noted once again. His usually small concise lettering was now no more than an untidy scrawl written by a wasted hand. It brought her great pain and anguish to now imagine the face of it's writer. His eyes sunken and now permanently ringed by black, his skin sallow and his face gaunt after the torturous punishment inflicted upon him.

As a sob escaped her pursed lips and un-fallen tears blinded her, she forced herself to recall the words that provided her only source of comfort. They were as clear in her mind that it was as if she were reading them;

_Dearest Narcissa_

_Not a moment goes by where I do not think of you. I am sorry for what I have caused you and even sorrier still that it burdens you even now. I accept my punishment willingly as it is mine to bear, but I fear that the price of my mistake does not simply end in my punishment, and may stretch to include you and Draco. This I cannot even bare to think about. The Dark Lord is incredibly angry and I do not think my failure will be forgiven. I have put you both in a very dangerous position, for which I am truly sorry. Imprisonment is only half a punishment compared to losing either of you. Keep your head down and your tongue under control. I need you to be strong Narcissa, for you and for Draco. I will be by your side soon enough._

_Lucius._

She gave a strangled cry of despair, which she quickly muffled into the sleeve of her robe as her son stirred, turning restlessly and then slowly opening his bleary eyes.

Narcissa kept her hand firmly pressed against her mouth despite the fact that all possible words had died in her throat, and pressed herself closer to the wall, her breath coming in painful gasps which she hastened to stifle. The darkness already hid her from sight, but as his eyes searched within the blackness for the source of his awakening, she couldn't help but notice that they lingered over where she stood for an extended time.

"Mother?" He asked tentatively, uncertain. No reply. No movement in the blackness. All was quiet.

She watched as he sank back into sleep, tears pouring freely from her eyes and her chest aching.

Lucius had guessed but could not have known, the lengths such revenge extended too, and neither had she till this same dusk had drew in and delved the very heart from within her.

He had indeed been right about the Dark Lords plans. But while he couldn't bare to think about it, it was the only thing she thought about.

Her son! Her child! How could he be expected to carry out this task when countless others had failed? How could he be charged with a task even the Dark Lord was inept to complete. For goodness sake, the Dark Lord even feared him! The 'only one he ever feared' and now Draco was supposed to carry out this suicidal mission when so many things were set against him? It was horrifying madness. It was brutality at its best. It was impossible.

Draco, single handedly killing Albus Dumbledore? It was almost as ludicrous, although infinitely more horrifying, as Harry Potter bringing down the Dark Lord.

That revelation sent a shudder down her spine, that proceeded to engulf her entire being. A strange feeling flowed through her, an ice cold dread that burned with the ferocity of fire.

She curled herself into a ball as sobs racked her petite form, her hands lost in her blond tresses; as if looking for something, anything, to hold onto. An anchorage, a small silver of hope to draw strength from; but she found none. It was only too painful to remember the events of earlier that day, but her mind gave her no peace, for the relentless images bombarded her again, and she was held at their mercy.

_Narcissa walked slowly down the dimly lit corridor with Darco matching step at her side. The small of her heels made a gentle tapping sound against the rough stoned floor and Draco's footfalls beside her created a bass to the rhythm._

_Despite it being early September, just bordering on the transition of seasons from summer to autumn, coldness prickled every inch of her skin. This chill however, no matter how she tried to justify it otherwise, did not result from the changing weather. It was a physical manifestation of the quiet fear she felt, concerning hers and Draco's summons._

_A summons that had been issued by the Dark Lord himself, and while she was indefinite of his reasoning for such, she was certain she could guess it; and nothing of such a nature boded well for neither her nor Draco._

_She, unlike her son, was hooded and cloaked, which shrouded most of her face in shadow and allowed her a small amount of closure in which to think. Her hand rested upon Draco's shoulder that leveled higher than her own; her fingers molding to the shape and refusing to give up their hold. Draco looked displeased with this, but never voiced such displeasure aloud; his eyes warily scanning his surroundings._

_Fellow Death Eaters averted their eyes as the two passed, snaking through doorways that adjoined the corridor, low whisperings, audible and disconcerting. Draco's head snapped around in attempts to catch each one in the act, while Narcissa's remained downcast in trained ignorance._

_Narcissa became hesitant as she approached the solid oak door that reared up ominously at the end of the secluded passageway, leading to her fate. Her steps, and subsequently, Draco's also, came to a grinding halt._

_For a fleeting moment of doubt, Narcissa considered running, her and Draco now, as far away as possible. Fleeing from whatever cruel twist of fate lay in a dormant wait on the other side of the door._

_Could she really take another devastating blow? Would he exterior armor hold while her interior crumbled to nothing? She wondered, really, how much more she could take of this. Lucius' incarceration had ripped the very essence of life from her soul, she was a shell, empty of a center; denied of her love and devoid of her heart._

_Draco remained the one small glory in her new world of darkness, a shrouded beacon of illumination buried deep within the blackness. But even that did not stop her waking every night in a cold sweat, repeating Lucius' name over and over again, almost chanting; until the tears came and robbed her of all breath._

_Here and now, herself and Draco were completely at the Dark Lords mercy, just as Lucius had foretold; 'a dangerous position'._

_She could run, but she never would, for it was a fool who ran from Lord Voldermort and a coward who attempted it. She was neither._

_"Stay here," she told Draco firmly, caressing his cheek while fixing him with a look that dared him to protest otherwise._

_He did, commencing his argument almost immediately, but when the inevitable words, 'I was summoned too' were spoken, she cut across him with such a harshness of tone that had never been used towards him before, that any further arguments seemed to register as futile to him._

_"I am your mother Draco! Any order that I give comes first and foremost before anything else, even a summons from the Dark Lord!" she hissed in a strained whisper, for fear of being overheard, but insisting with paramount importance that he understood._

_"No you will stay here!" she commanded._

_Taking in the fierce expression she wore, Draco complied with his mothers wishes, conceding his dispute. He inched, ever so slightly back down the passageway where he stood, leaning against the wall, his hands balled into fists at his sides and looking for all the world as if he had just been denied life's greatest chance._

_Narcissa ignored this, thankful and relieved that, even with ill grace, he had accepted her authority._

_Her anxiety peaked, as slowly, she turned to face the heavy, dark wood door. Drawing in a steading breath, she willed her fingers to curl around the handle and inch the door ajar._

_She would face whatever awaited her. Surely, there was not much worse left for her to be forced to endure, than what she was enduring already? She was wrong.  
The room that she entered was dimmer and danker than the approaching passageway had been, and screamed despair. The only source of light was cast from a low burning fire in a long disused hearth, and the air she breathed was tinged with the scent of musk. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the transition, upon whence they fell immediately upon the faintly glowing, pearly white, snake-like face; which in that moment seemed to portray more menace, more cruelty and more ruthlessness than ever before. Her fear for Draco peaked, increasing tenfold; her heart beat traitorously, pounding against her chest and threatening to break through as she tried despairingly to clear these thoughts from her mind in face of the world most accomplished legilimens._

_It was as if her very nightmares had been awoken in that face. She drew a deep breath, forcing herself to keep calm, and taking the utmost care to compose her face into displaying nothing more than a completely neutral expression, unbetraying of her feelings. It was a difficult feat; but when she spoke, her voice was strong and steady, boasting a sense of calmness and confidence that she did not possess._

_"You summoned me, my lord? ... And Draco?" she added begrudgingly._

_"Ahh Narcissa." His face twisted into a sinister smile. "Yes, I did."_

_That was the first indication he gave in acknowledgment to her presence in the room. The huge 12 foot Nagini was coiled around the back of the chair on which the Dark Lord took seat. He traced his bone white fingers lovingly along its head and down its body, to which the snake hissed contentedly._

_Narcissa waited for further elaboration on the Dark Lords part, all the while the thudding of her heart got ever louder. The suffocating silence stretched on, Voldermort's expression was pleasurable as if finding great enjoyment in each passing moment of torturous silence. It was almost like a battle of wills, his, of course, superior. Finally, Narcissa could bare it no longer, and ventured;_

_"May I inquire as to the reasoning behind mine and my son's summons, my Lord?" Her voice was wavering now, her false tone of calmness cracking, revealing undertones of anxiety and frustration, which only ensured to fuel the Dark Lords enjoyment._

_"You may," he permitted. His answer again unbearably concise. Narcissa ignored the crippling frustration as it twisted her stomach in knots, amalgamating with the thick sense of dread that already lay heavily there._

_When the Dark Lord spoke of his own accord, the sinister voice was low, almost caring;_

_"This cannot be easy for you, Narcissa. I know." The tone was hypnotic, almost purring. "Having to face each new day as it comes, struggling just to carry on when it feels like the entire world is set against you."_

_Narcissa's body was stiff and her demeanor careful, wary._

_"The Dark Lord knows." His voice was smooth; a demon in disguise. She made no movement, her eyes never leaving the floor. Such a tone was unlike any that she had heard uttered from his lips before._

_"The Dark Lord understands." Now there was an outrageous theory. However, a small portion of her mind nagged with the question; was it really possible? She didn't trust it._

_"I know what it must be like, living in the shadow of Lucius' incompetence. His blunder haunting your steps, never ceasing to trouble you. The humiliation!"_

_He steepled his bone white fingers, observing her as a herbologist would observe a particularly enthralling specimen. When he next spoke, his tone was so harsh and his expression so filled with joy that the stark contrast sent her head reeling._

_"You are the wife of Lucius Malfoy. The man who perhaps, can be held solely responsible for losing me the victory I so deserved. The man who's idiocy and incompetence meant the prophecy was smashed and went unheard! And the man who's incapableness meant that he was captured by the Minestry, all of who had just bore witness to unshakable evidence of my return! His mistakes are your mistakes! His incompetency is your incompetency! And his humiliation your humiliation to bear too!"_

_A multitude of conflicting emotions coursed through Narcissa at once; anger, injustice, sadness, pain. She fought each one as it threatened to engulf and consume her. She would not crumble for the Dark Lord's entertainment._

_"But am I not a merciful Lord?" His tone had changed again, regaining its smoothness. He didn't expect an answer and Narcissa complied._

_"I believe in second chances," he went on, "that people can make honest mistakes, and therefore, should not be punished for such. I believe that your marrying Lucius was an honest mistake for which I am offering you the chance to redeem yourself. You and Draco."_

_Narcissa did not miss that fact that her son had been thrust into the matter and, inadvertently, her head turned to regard the closed door that separated her from him. While internally she raged at the Dark Lord's cruel and misguided words, a sense of dread began to seep through her like poison._

_"I have a task that needs completing; a chance to raise the Malfoy name above all others, a chance to dispel all misgrievences; even perhaps Lucius' costly blunder. A task that will hold its accomplisher in eternal high esteem. What do you say? Interested?"_

_Narcissa kept both her expression and her tone of voice even as she answered;_

_"I will do anything that is asked of me."_

_He gave a high pitched, callous laugh, that although Narcissa was uncertain as to its cause, sent tremors down her spine all the same._

_"I admire your commitment Narcissa, but it is not your assistance that I require." His voice was filled with undiluted pleasure, that made it a sinister sound to the ear._

_Narcissa's eyes went wide with realization and her mouth dropped open in a 'O' of muted shock, as quite suddenly, the last two illusive pieces of the puzzle fitted together, throwing the image into glorious detail before her._

_Her hands shook violently at her sides, her breath coming in painful gasps. Her world once more tumbled into darkness, but this time there would be no reprieve, only complete consumption._

_"No! Please my Lord , not Draco! Not my son!" Her please were nothing more than desperate hoarse whispers, strangled in her throat. "Please not Draco! He is only sixteen!" she begged fiercely. It was however, in vain._

_"Bring me your son, Narcissa." Was his brutal reply to her pleading, which he looked down upon as a scene of indecency. His voice as cold and hard as ice._

_"Please -" she tried again, chocking on the word._

_"Now!"_

_Pain struck her suddenly, every muscle in her body contracting due to the Dark Lord's none verbal curse. She couldn't help it, she screamed, such was its immediacy. Throughout the continuous lashings of pain however, she remained upstanding, though barely. She adamantly refused to be brought to her knees at the feet of another wizard like some filthy half-breed, not fit to own a wand._

_Finally, and never soon enough, the pain ceased._

_"Now. Bring me your son," he repeated his previous order. This time, Narcissa could not refuse, such was the finality of the command._

_Each step she took was unwilling, as each time she condemned her son further. How could she as a mother, allow her son to be intentionally hurt? Every essence of her being screamed at her to stop this; while never offering an alternative course of action. Lucius was right, he had always been right, and she had known it, but always found a way to deny it to herself. No longer was that possible, she realized that with sickening certainty. All the while, the Dark Lord's eyes pierced her, she knew what fate awaited her if she hesitated even for a second._

_She emerged into the corridor, shaking. Her hood had slipped down to reveal a pallid, white face that bore a haunted expression. Her eyes stung to behold her son, still lounged against the wall, and so completely oblivious to the fate that awaited him._

_She tried to call his name, but her throat was so constricted that it refused to utter a sound, and while her entire being urged her forward to cover the last few meters that separated her from her son, and envelope him into a protective embrace, shielding him from danger; she found her legs to be nothing more than useless lead weights. She remained trapped by her fear._

_As if suddenly sensing her presence, Draco startled, his head snapping up, his worried gaze centering upon her and intensifying as he took in her expression of uppermost dread._

_"Mother?" He covered the distance that separated them in five anxious strides, coming to stand before her and placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, frowning when he felt her shaking beneath his touch._

_"Are you alright?" He stammered, concerned. Evidently she was not, but he wanted her assessment and confirmation on the matter. His mother was strong, after all, in character and mentality._

_Slowly, Narcissa shook her head as if fearing to speak. With quivering hands she reached out to cup Draco's face, bringing it closer to her own and kissing the pale white cheek, as if this were their final farewell; all the while unable to meet his eye. For once Draco did not protest._

_"Mother?" He was scared now, fearful of her acting in such a resigned manor._

_"You must come with me, Draco." Her tone conveyed the repulsion she harbored for herself, each word like a fatal poison._

_"O-Okay," he stammered._

_Taking his hand in her own, she pressed it too her lips._

_"I'm sorry." She spoke in a monotone of ultimate betrayal._

_As she led him into the darkness, she could feel him grow nervous beside her, she gave his hand a gentle squeeze of reassurance, which she felt traitorous offering. Whatever happened, she would go to any lengths to protect him, aid him in any way that she could, and be ever vigilant of him and those surrounding him. And maybe then, her traitorous actions might warrant forgiveness._

_The Dark Lord was eager this time, addressing Draco almost immediately in a tone that was warm and congratulatory, but still rung sinister to Narcissa's ears and caused her to grimace, as if its very sound attributed to physical pain._

_"Ahhh, Draco. Welcome."_

_Suddenly, Narcissa and Draco's clasped hands burned white hot and they were forced to sever contact. Draco gave an audible cry, a combination of shock and pain. Narcissa however, remained silent, flexing her fingers slightly in effort to confirm that her hand was not so frozen and deadened as it felt; now devoid of its previous partner._

_When the Dark Lord next spoke, his words were addressed to neither Narcissa nor Draco, but were rather profound musings spoken aloud._

_"Yes, there's much potential here, and a thirst for power; very good ..." He spoke fondly, appraisingly. Draco shuddered under the Dark Lords legilimency, unable to halt the intrusion._

_Narcissa was nauseated by the scene, anger coursed through her veins birthing a thousand desperate courses of action to liberate Draco, shelled each one before it could form solid foundations that would be a lot harder to dispel._

_She walked precariously upon a knife edge, halt for a moment, or stray for a little either side and she would fall. Her sons safety was paramount, but his was not the only one that rested upon her. There were too many ends that didn't meet up to weave the future, no firm certainty in an undecided world, and not enough stepping stones in the crashing black waters to grant safe passage across._

_" ... strong beliefs; good good. Your mother and father have taught you well. A true Slytherin! Cunning, clever, prospering, talented. Oh yes. And what is this? A rivalry, why Draco, it appears that you and I are not so different."_

_At this, Narcissa almost screamed aloud her protests. She balled her hands into fists, concentrating her anger there until they ached with the tension._

_"How would you like a chance to prove yourself, Draco?" That tone, it was like a rattlesnake ensnaring its prey, poison contained in every syllable, it was at this moment that Narcissa truly understood why wizards feared to speak his name._

_"To have your name spoken in awe for eternity, held above that of every other wizards. How about it? A single task that grants you eternal high esteem. All it takes is one word from you. What do you say?"_

_Draco gave a sideways glance at his mother, her face ashen and frozen with fear, very slightly, almost imperceptibly, but still carrying intent conviction, she shook her head. A futile forbidence. She could see it in his eyes, he was ensnared, captivated, his mind whirling with possibilities so distant from reality. His fate had already been sealed._

_Looking suddenly so small in Narcissa's eyes, he turned back to regard the white skullish face that was almost baring down upon him._

_"I'll do it."_

Her breath came in gasps as her throat constricted, her hands shook violently as she held then to her chest. Trying unsuccessfully to stem the inevitable pain that would rip through her body.

Draco had said yes, even now she had to reiterate this very truth to herself in he vague hope that its reality would instate itself in her mind. Just as the Dark Lord had planned it, and just as she, in the deepest and blackest chasms of her heart, although she refused to admit it to herself; had always known he would. The allure of it was just too much to pass up. He did not see the dangers his path was fraught with, only the glory of his succession; for in his mind there existed no shadowed doubt of victory.

He would be the one to lift the name, Malfoy from the mud where it currently resided, and his name would be spoken in awe for centuries to come.

Narcissa understood the draw of it, she really did, and has she been so much younger and so less wizened, she may have even been jealous in a way, should she have been appointed Death Eater. But not now, she had seen to much that disallowed her to able herself with wild delusions of her sons victory, to which she could cling to fiercely. He would never be able to complete this task, no matter how boastful or sure in his mind he was; it was beyond him.

Draco didn't understand, he didn't see, thought Narcissa desperately. He saw himself invincible.

She gave a bitter laugh, just as Lucius had.

She could not let her son follow in his fathers footsteps. No! She would not. She couldn't lose them both, she wouldn't survive it. Draco didn't understand what was being asked of him now, his mind too filled with glorified thoughts, but in time he would, when reality struck, it would strike hard.

Her instincts as a mother and her loyalty to the Dark Lord's cause had been pitted against each other, and were now fighting a vicious battle.

She wanted to rush into her sons room and cradle him in her arms like he was a small child again, for in this time of uncertainty that was what he seemed to be. A small child lost, tangled up in things that were way above his head. She wanted to hold him and refuse to let go, to protect him from harm as she had pledged to him 16 years ago. But how could she protect him from this? This was out of her hands and she hated it.

Images of Lucius in Azkaban flooded into her mind again, and although not real, had she been on her feet, they would have sent her stumbling.

She could not sit and watch her son suffer, Lucius was an absent figure from her life, she could not watch Draco fade away too. She wouldn't. She did not think herself to bear strength enough to accumulate the already broken and scattered shards in order to rebuild the glass structure of her family  
She couldn't lose her son, there had to be some way, a loophole that the Dark Lord had not foresaw, or simply overlooked. As ludicrous as that sounded.  
There had to be something ... her life without Draco was even more unbearable than the waking nightmare she existed in now.  
She pledged to herself in that moment; she would not rest until she found it ...

* * *

With a set determination and an unswayble disregard for the risks and danger her choices bore, Narcissa pulled on the jet black cloak, lifting her hood so that it partially obscured her face. She had gone over things time and time again in her mind, weighing up her options, deliberating the pros and cons; and this was what she had deemed the likeliest and most practical course of action. If she could not watch over her son, an irrevocable duty that had been wrenched from her control, then she would find someone who could, someone who had been a friend to both her and Lucius for many years.

"What are you doing?!" The hiss from behind startled her, but her face became cold as her own ice blue eyes locked with a second black and heavily lidded pair, similarly shrouded beneath a drawn hood. Those of her sisters.

"You know my intentions, Bella," she said curtly.

"I know them. But I didn't believe them, at least not up until this moment," replied Bellatrix reproachfully.

"Well here is your proof." Narcissa's tone was harsh.

Both sisters cast angry glares at each other from the depths of their drawn hoods. Bellatrix was the first to break the thick silence that had descended in the wake of their cold remarks, her voice controlled and persuasive.

"Cissy, you don't have to do this. No-one else knows what you are planning to do. Stop this madness now and no-one will be any the wiser," she pleaded of her sister, and then in a fine display of tactlessness, added;

"I don't want to see you get hurt." It was a misguided gesture of compassion towards her sister, that revealed a tiny sliver of humanity in Bellatrix's cruel existence.

"You don't want to see me get hurt! I'm already hurting," once she started she couldn't stop, all her pent up feelings came spilling out now.

"Each morning I wake up on my own, every time I look at Draco, I feel pain. It hurts for me to even look at my son, and the room that remains empty unless I am in it. It hurts so much each time I swear the pain is going to kill me. But it never does, it never does ..."Her voice cracked as she tried to fight back the tears that were building in her eyes.

She could feel her knees giving way, as darkness rushed forwards with waiting hands to pull her under. Fatigue seized her every limb and exhaustion quelled her resistance as her body rushed forward to meet the floor. She could do nothing but welcome it, the collision with the hard surface, just so, for one moment, she could feel something other than the emotional turmoil that was now her permanent state. It may still have only been pain she felt, but it was a different sort of pain. This pain stemmed from something physical, something that could be seen by the naked eye. It's healing would be visible and progressive. Did that make it more real than her other pain, which could not be seen?

"I've made my choice," she chocked out, waiting for darkness to consume her entirely. It never did.

"And it's the wrong one!"

In the minutes that followed, Bellatrix gaze never wondered from Narcissa, her face twisted in a half grimace at her sisters obvious suffering, and a half disapproving look as she continued to follow through with her plans.

"Bella," Narcissa finally spoke, her voice was stronger now, possessing a fierce determination and resolve that had previously been absent. "I cannot get him out of this, the Dark Lord cannot be swayed, but damn me to hell if you wish, for I am not going to stand by and watch my son be destroyed."

"If he were killed, it would be for a noble cause. He would die in favor far greater than any of our own. He would die a hero's death," Bellatrix said coldly, her eyes burning with repressed jealousy.

"Noble! No cause that warrants my sons death is noble!" shrieked Narcissa, shaking her head as if to dispel the very notion that was like poison to her mind.

"Why do you mother the boy, Cissy? He is old enough to know his own mind, and with it has chosen a most notable rout. You should be proud," chided Bellatrix, with indiscretion. Narcissa's lip curled in disgust.

"He is my son! I don't expect you to understand, never having children of you own."

Her words had the desired affect. Bellatrix noticeably stiffened, her face remained unchanged but fury smoldered in her eyes, her mouth, no more than a thin white line, barely moved as she spoke and the words seemed to leave a bitter taste in the back of her throat..

"If I had, I would have willingly offered the to the Dark Lord."

"How very, noble of you," Narcissa sneered.

"Indeed," agreed Bellatrix, as if their heated discussion was nothing more than an exchange of pleasantries in a casual conversation. Quite calmly she continued, feigning ignorance to the effect her words would have.

"But do tell me dear sister, what does Draco think about this?" It was Narcissa's turn to stiffen.

"Draco doesn't understand," she whispered, her voice so constricted with emotion that it was barely audible. Her eyes wide with a haunting fear.

"Oh, but I think he does. Far better than you. He knows what the Dark Lord asks of him. He intends for Draco to have recognition above all else"

"I know what the Dark Lord intends!" Spat Narcissa.

Suddenly it felt like all breath had been knocked out of her lungs, she'd knew it all along, but expressing her thoughts aloud seemed to make them more real. More inescapable than ever before.

"Do not think that I haven't spent every waking moment going over and over in my head," she hissed, "trying to figure out exactly why the Dark Lord chose Draco when there are many more capable wizards than he just waiting for an order. I have considered everything! And, now I know. I know exactly why! He is using Draco as a punishment for Lucius' mistakes. My husbands imprisonment is not enough; it never has been enough, and now he is using my son as a tool. He will be cast away when he is no longer of use," she was almost hysterical by now, he face a mask of torture as she admitted aloud, the darkest truth of the matter. "He intends for Draco to die!"

Bellatrix's look was hard, reproachful, like she was unwilling to consider her sisters words, never mind except them. But her stance boasted a sense of uncertainty.

"I cannot let this happen Bella, I am going to do everything within my power to keep him safe, keep him alive." They were words of desperate determination.

"Even if it compromises you loyalty to the Dark Lord," Bellatrix sounded astounded, as if the very idea of it were a dire epiphany to her.

"My only loyalty now is to my son," she answered coldly.

Bellatrix flinched as if her sisters words caused her physical pain; her eyes darted around the room, suddenly wary, as if she feared the Dark Lord himself would come down upon her, for simply baring witness to Narcissa's admittance.

"Cissy?" Her voice held a note of emotion that had been an absent feature from it for many a year. Concern. At this, Narcissa felt obliged to meet her sisters gaze.

"I'm sorry Bella, I know you don't understand and I don't expect you too. I hardly understand, things are vastly different now," she attempted to explain. "I no longer see the glory I once saw in the Dark Lords cause and quite frankly, I am ashamed that it has taken me being faced with the prospect of losing my husband and son to realize, really, what is important to me. To me now, it is nothing but a senseless war, full of unnecessary deaths, unneeded punishments and ruthless torture. I never understood, and I still don't pretend to know now, what the pain of loss felt like. But Lucius has been gone for five months now, my contact with him has been minimal, and although I know he will come back to me. I still have to wake up every morning to his absence and force myself to carry on, holding onto that hope. If there were no hope, I don't think I could carry on, I could not force myself to bear each day as it came and passed. And now, losing Draco is a very real possibility. My loyalty no longer stands, my son and husband are the only things that matter in my life now."

Bellatrix drew a shaky breath, hearing her sister talk in such a manner had unnerved her. It brought to the forefront of her mind, unwilled images of their shared childhood.

"I never did look out for you, did I? I was never there to protect you, little sister."

"Then change that," pleaded Narcissa, "help me now."

"I can't." She sounded almost sorry. It was a denial said around tight lips.

"Then don't try and stop me Bella, because I swear to you now, if you stand in my way I will curse you." Her voice was cold and hard, without any trace of emotion or humanity. Later on Narcissa would come to realize that she sounded exactly like Bellatrix at that moment.

"But why Snape?" Bellatrix asked with resentment, spitting the name as if it were dirt to her.

"Because I trust him and I know he will help me," she was angry now. "He has been a good friend to Lucius and I over the years and he will do as I ask. He is in the perfect position to watch over Draco."

"I will help you," said Bellatrix quietly.

"So long as it doesn't compromise your loyalty?" Narcissa laughed, it was a harsh sound, quite unlike her usual girlish laugh.

"Yes," replied Bellatrix stiffly.

Narcissa's anger ebbed slowly, and was replaced by remorse. Her now permanent state of emotional turmoil existed like a churning river, that crashed against the barrier of an unsteady damn, each new lashing weakening the defense. There was only one viable course of action, strengthen the structure, or be prepared to watch it falter.  
"I'm sorry, Bella. I should never have involved you in this, forget tonight ever happened. It will be safer for everyone concerned." Were her parting words.

With deep sorrow, Narcissa turned away from her sister, her eyes closed as, silently and resolutely, she turned on the spot and disapperated.

"No, Narcissa! Wait!" Bellatrix called into the silence, for her sister was already gone. Immediately Bellatrix followed suit, a maddening look of desperation in the gleam of her eyes to rival Narcissa's.

* * *

His hand was clenched in hers. His sallow skin rough to her touch and the many small bones that resided beneath it prominent. His eyes were sunken deep into his skill and ringed by black, and his face had the texture of wax that had been melted and then solidified. His once flowing blond hair hung limp at his shoulders, and his eyes that had once shone with life were now as dull as stones, lost in the pain that plagued his expressions. Lucius was home, but he was a changed man. He was not the one she remembered.

Time had ravaged them both, perhaps more than it should have done. They stood now as they had before, hand in hand and heads inclined towards each other, but nothing now was as it was, and everything before could have been a different lifetime.

Things could never go back to how they were, too much had happened to allow this, the only choice left to them now was to move forward if it were possible. But their road ahead was rocky and traitorous, the pit falls very real but masked by the false path. It was a dangerous road to tread, stray for a second and they were lost to fate. Hand in hand they stood now, and hand in hand was how they would proceed, carefully, cautiously, but always together.

She reached up with her free hand to caress the hollowed cheek, wanting to see if the texture was what it appeared to be. But his came from no-where to halt hers in it's course. His eyes were pained and he shrank away from her touch almost as if it physically pained him.

"Don't," was all that he said, his face set into a grimace.

She lowered her hand accordingly, aware that his eyes watched the movement intently.

"Narcissa, I am not the man that was taken from you five moths ago." He spoke gravely.

"You are still the man that I fell in love with," she reiterated with such conviction that it startled him.

"I fear the man you fell in love with has been lost."

"Then we shall find him."She brought the hand that was clasped in hers, up to her lips and kissed it. Lucius grimaced, unable to hide his discomfort. "Together."

"How can you bear to look at me?" He almost sounded accusing. "After everything I've done to you, to Draco! How does the sight of me not repulse you and strike the very fire of regret alight in your heart?! Look at my face and tell me truly, is this the face of the man you love?" Desperation and bitterness tinged his voice, his face adopting an expression befitting of a man who wished to have his darkest truths admitted to him quickly and concisely, in the vain hope that it might lessen the anguish.

"Yes," there was no hesitation, but it took all of her effort not to let her voice crack with the tsunami of emotions that washed over her. Flesh was only flesh after all, an outside representation of what lay inside. Sometimes true to itself, other times, not so much.

"I've never regretted marrying you Lucius Malfoy, and I more as likely never will. Neither do I regret ever laying eyes upon you, for otherwise you would not have gifted me something, besides yourself, that meant more to me then the entire world. My son." Her eyes searched for his, but he kept them averted.

"You have given me so much more than I ever could have imagined, and I will not hear you talk that way," she said firmly.

"I speak the truth," he replied gravely.

"You speak a lie! A lie that you haven managed to convince yourself is the truth." There was a note of fervency in her voice, but her composure remained completely calm. A few months ago would have found her reduced to desperate pleas, if that was what it took, to cease him speaking so. Now, she stood and fought. She fought for herself and for Lucius, just like she had fought for the last seven months, and just like she would continue fighting for however long it took. She now had strength enough for all of them.

His face was calm, controlled as if he were repressing his emotions, but he could not stop his eyes sparkling with confusion and wonderment. He seemed to appraise her as if suddenly she had been shown to him in a new light. She had grown in his absence.

She was no longer the ripened bud on the rose tree, reaching high and tall to gain the light and warmth of the sun. He could see that now, in his absence the tree had grown feral, the vines and thorns strangling the plant, starving it. Taking life as a leech would draw blood. His spring bud had been caged, cut off from what it had needed the most, slowly shriveling in the darkness as each day it drew closer to death. But his return had severed the bonds that oppressed it, and now, although maimed, his bud had grown stronger and taller once again. His bud was now a rose, somehow different to all others, but to him the most striking and sweetest smelling of it's kind. But it's petals would always remain a shade of darker red, un-natural, and a constant reminder of a time, when even continuing to live was a struggle.

"I will make everything alright again, I promise." He spoke with such determined conviction that cast life and reason back into his hagged face. For a moment he seemed to wrestle with his conscience, taking a tentative step towards her, but still, something held him back.

Narcissa reached her hand back out for his, which he had priorly extracted from her grasp, but she also hesitated, apparently thinking better of it. She let her hand fall back to her side, cold and empty.

Things would have to be taken slowly, like learning to walk again; the first few steps were always the hardest, but afterwards they soon became habit. However long it took, she could wait.

"I don't think things can be made 'right'. At least not really right, this mess cannot be undone, the only thing left to us now is a choice. My mind is made up Lucius, is yours?"  
"...Narcissa?!

"Do not fret,"she reached out again, this time – still with a notable grimace – he took her hand.

"I will not betray the Dark Lord or his cause, as I do not hold with disloyalty, but if the choice between my son and my loyalty should ever arise, I know my decision; and I will not regret it for a minute. I do not and will not ask you to follow me, but if you do, then it will be entirely of your choosing. I will not lose Draco, like I almost lost you."

His hand tightened around hers and he stiffened, his eyes; sunken as they were, betraying his pain in its full and blazing entirety. Narcissa remained calm as she spoke words that would once have evoked the same response from her, while her breath caught in her throat slightly, she was able to keep a clear and considering head upon her shoulders.

When she had waved him off at Kings Cross station, no two days ago, it was with a heavily burdened heart and a feeling of infinite dread resting in the pit of her stomach. But the only reason she had let him go – other than his absence causing a stir – Severus Snape was there, watching over him.

Severus had made the unbreakable vow, he was dutifully bound to aid and protect. This was the thought that she conjured each night and morning, when everything seemed to come rushing back to her. And, it was this that quelled her anguish and allowed her to find the strength she needed; for all her family.

"Things won't always be this way,"she spoke softly and lovingly, curling herself into his chest and wrapping his arms around herself when he did not do so immediately. He did not protest this time and gave her what she wanted, what she needed. He had to be strong also, that much he knew. If she wanted him still, after all he had done, then by all means he was hers.

"How do you know?" His tone was almost pleading.

"Because nothing can last forever. Everything has an end, that alone is one certainty we can count on." She rested her head in the crook of his neck.

"For better or for worse, this will end."

He held her close now, as if he were afraid that his release of her would render her lost from him. He was like a person holding onto the last threads of a delusion, unwilling to face reality.

"I'm sorry I involved you in this, my failure is the reason for Draco's en-service, you know that as well as I do, and I am truly sorry. For everything," he looked ashamed and she could feel his arms lessening their grip on her, they way they always did when the conversation vied towards the repercussions of his mistakes. She tightened them around her once again.

"And you know as well as the next person, that I do not blame you. Everybody makes mistakes. Even the Dark Lord."

Out of habit, her eyes quickly scanned the immediate vicinity making sure there was no way their conversation would be overheard. Though she doubted anyone would be able to gain entrance to the manor without her knowing. But habits died hard, the complete lack of though that went into the process, since it had been carried out so many times before that it was more a learned behavior, made them almost impossible to break.

That's when she saw it, the look that flashed in his eyes every time the Dark Lords name was spoken. It was less pronounced now than it had been, but it still made a small tremor snake it's way down Narcissa's back as she caught it. That very look stared back at her from another's eyes also. It showed need, an unfathomable need to gain power, glory and favor, coupled with a distaste for not having so. It was deeper than longing, but not quite obsession.

The first week after Lucius' return, had been almost as, if not more unbearable than his absence. He was a mere shade of the man that she had been robbed of for so long. As she had looked into his eyes she had caught herself missing the man he was before, rather then being thankful for the man she had now. She had severely reprimanded herself for thinking so.

Christmas had not been the happy occasion she had envisioned, with Lucius self seclusion and Draco's refusal to even look at his father, the small trio gathered around the table had produced an atmosphere to rival the coldness of the weather. But things had improved, considerably when taking into account how they had started out. But they were not yet, and possibly never would be, the same as they were before.

"The Dark Lords mistakes are excusable," whispered Lucius automatically, his eyes downcast.

"How more so than yours?!" Narcissa hissed. He was silent for a minute, his face contorted as if he were battling inner demons.

"We cannot talk about this! You may not be bound by rules anymore, but I still hold my loyalties intact."He exploded unintentionally, his breath coming in shallow gasps and not sufficing his need for oxygen. His face hard, as if carved from stone as opinions conflicted in his mind.

Narcissa's eyes were cold when she answered, but her face betrayed no hint of emotion.

"I am bound by the same rules as you Lucius. I have already informed you why I remain here, you may think your own life meaningless, but I do not, and I will continue preserving it until the day you come to your senses and relieve me of my duty. As with Draco. I thought you knew me better than this Lucius."

She broke from his embrace and turned her back on him, completely disregarding his presence. Her manner was cold but her face still remained devoid of the emotions within her. She had spent so long constructing and perfecting the mask she now presented indefinitely, that it was possibly a permanent fixture.

It was a while before she felt the hesitant touch upon her shoulder, and heard the wasted voice.

"Forgive me," he pleaded, drawing closer to her.

"Always."

Lucius spun her back round again so that she was held firmly against him, the contours of her body fitting perfectly to his. The stood embraced, her head again nestled in the crook of his neck, just like they had stood many times previous, countless years ago when the burden of troubles laid down upon them had barely existed.

"I know this is not easy for you," she said quietly, knowingly. "So many things to consider, what decision is right and for who. He has treated you so harshly but still you remain so loyal, you bear misgrievences for your trials and your suffering, but still you feel the need to prove yourself. I understand." She looked up into his sunken eyes, her hand caressing his cheek, accustoming itself to the new texture. "It's okay to be afraid. Fear is what drives us when there is nothing else. It compels us to do extraordinary things. I should know. But from fear Lucius comes strength and bravery. Am I not living proof?"

"You are living proof of a miracle that I am thankful for each day," he whispered into her blond tresses.

She sighed, miracles were unexplainable, something rare and in most circumstances coveted. They occurred in times of need, when all other hope had gone they granted it. Miracle, hardly the word she would use to describe herself. Her actions were perfectly explainable, they were those of any mother and wife when faced with the prospect of the loss of those she loved.

"If you asked anything of me, I would see it done," she told him softly.

Lucius gave a sorrowful smile.

"Erase the mistakes of my past."

"One day, I will." There was a genuine truth in her voice that sealed the pledge.

"Will Draco be okay? " Lucius asked, his voice suddenly husky with repressed emotion.

"Severus is keeping a constant eye on him and deflecting any suspicion. Draco is in the safest possible hands aside from our own." Narcissa remained calm as she spoke, allowing herself to become consumed by worry would be of no aid to the situation at hand. Not that she thought any emotion could pass through the wall she had erected in her mind. Conviction and assurance lay heavily on her words;

"He knows what he must do if Draco ultimately fails. I trust him with our sons life."

"And I trust you, to know what is best for our son."

Her hand was clasped in his once again. This was the offset of their journey, their first tentative steps upon their chosen path, their way stretched out before them left to tread.

"We will make it through this," Narcissa said with unquestionable certainty.

"Together," Lucius supplied.

* * *

One hour; Sixty minutes; Three-thousand six-hundred seconds; A relatively short time when all things considered, but it felt like it had taken an age to pass. For one hour, while the battle had been called to a halt, she had had no idea whether her son was was alive or dead. For sixty minutes, horrifying images had plagued her mind as scenarios played out, each featuring prominently Draco's limp and lifeless body cradled in her arms. And, for three-thousand six-hundred seconds she fought to retain control of herself.

This fate had been unavoidable, such a firm certainty. So why had shock seized her at its ultimate occurrence? Harry Potter was dead, by the Dark Lord's hand, he lay spread eagled on the floor, his glasses askew, but for all the world a depiction of peace and bravery. Something about him struck her at that moment and averse to admitting it, she could not deny the selflessness of his final act. Perhaps it was his silence, his stillness that spurred forward these unusual thoughts, or perhaps they stemmed from a quite awareness of the fact that his life now ceased to exist, after all it improper to disrespect the dead.

Something, however, did not seem right. It had been too simple, too quick and too easy. An unfitting achievement for the effort exacted to bring it about. It was evident that things had gone awry, the Dark Lords spell had backfired upon him, the snake-like face dangerous with surprise as he was repelled backwards; his Death Eaters swarming around him, Bellatrix's voice ringing out clearer than any other in the din.

Lucius and Narcissa had remained at the sidelines, watching the scene with uncertainly, hesitating on the brink.

The Dark Lord quickly recovered, waving away his Death Eaters with unrepressed agitation; Bellatrix, of course, unquenchable. Casting blazing eyes around the clearing and across all those assembled within it, poised in various stances of caution, he pulled back his thin lips into a sneer; moonlight glinting off the pointed teeth.

Almost unwillingly, as if hoping to disregard them; his gaze fell upon Lucius and Narcissa whereby it hardened, regarding them a slight distance away from the heart of the group. His lip curled in distaste.

Narcissa felt the darkness close in around her, both protective and smothering. The only disruption in the mass blackness was the moon, which bled glowing silver into the starless canvas.

"You!" He leered, his gaze; jubilant, trained on Narcissa, "examine the body."

Whether it was intentional or not – but most probably the former – a deep purple jet of light spiraled from his wand and struck her heavily in the stomach. She cried out in amalgamated pain and shock, laying her hands over the area that stung like it had been scorched by bare flame.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Lucius' hand twitch, before lurching involuntary toward the depths of his robes; and then retracting shamefully, as if he had gone to reach for his wand; only afterwards realizing that he was no longer in possession of it.

A ghost of a smile played on Narcissa's lips at his protectiveness. From which she drew inner strength and resolve as she prepared to fight, ignoring her every sense that insisted flight was the more preferable course of action.

As she had stepped forward to examine the body of the worlds greatest hope, it's fallen hero, her mind was made up. Even as her heart raced and the lifeless form switched between Harry Potter and that of her son, her resolve didn't falter. Under the watchful gaze of all those assembled; once friends and comrades, but no longer, she assessed the body.

Crouching beside the lifeless body, her knees set against the wet earth, she reached out an unwilling and partially hesitant hand ...

A barely concealed breath caught in her throat as she felt the pulsating heart beneath her touch. Light and undetectable to anyone now but herself, her own heart beat just that little bit faster. She fought the urge to gasp aloud as irrational hope filled her; if this boy could survive when the odds were so largely stacked against him, then hope still remained for Draco.

She didn't know what drove her to do so, perhaps a desperate need to have confirmation one way or another, to know if her efforts were in vain, maybe just to relieve herself from the intense emotional turmoil that knotted her stomach, or even just to prepare herself in advance for the ultimate occurrence of a fate they had cheated for so long. But in that moment, she laid bare her true intentions, endangering not only her own life but the lives of those she had fought so hard to preserve.

She moved carefully and fluidly. Not too quickly as to show eagerness and not to slowly to show reluctance. She tilted her head sidewards; allowing her blond hair to fall shieldingly across her face. Obscuring the onlookers view as her lips, barely centimeters from the dark haired, bispecticaled boys ear, parted;

"Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?" Her voice was barely audible to her own ears but she was almost certain he had heard her.

His voice responded in a whisper;

"Yes."

Her breath was lost and her eyes welled in that moment. Her son was alive! She clenched her hand, that still remained above the boys heart, her adopted symbol of hope, as she fought to contain her joy. Not that it wouldn't seem befitting of the occasion.

With a final steading breath, she drew herself upright, feeling taller and bolder; her heart pounding with nervous anticipation at the thought of what she was about to do. The only way she would be permitted entrance to the castle was as a participant of the victory party. The only way she would be able to commence her search for Draco was firstly through betrayal, the two went hand in hand and painted her path. Lies and deceit held no firm footings in her world now, and as she spoke with a measured tone that gave nothing away, but held just the right amount of jubilation, the lie rung truer than any had a right too; born from her love, her determination and her sacrifice.

"He is dead!"

The cheers erupted around her, but she felt no place in the celebrations. She had eyes for only one person, and when those grey ones met her own blue ones through the crowd, she gave a small, imperceptible nod. The gesture was slight, easily overlooked amidst the celebrations, but to both it spoke volumes. At first chance.

The procession, quick paced and relishing, commenced soon after. The halfbreed, Hagrid; baring the body of Harry Potter at its head. Hugh sobs wracking his immense stature.

Both Lucius and Narcissa hung back a little, their hands clasped together as the brought up the rear. It was no revelation, for indeed they had known for a long time; there was no justice within the crusade they part-took. But now, more then ever it seemed more real, more immediate, an edge of finality tinged the air.

This was the end now of life as they had known it, like a red dawn after seasons of rain it washed away the old, casting a new light on what was to come. Things that were far greater than before. They were treading the last steps of their path now – their chosen route – this was it; all though, all strength and all courage amalgamated now to give Narcissa the final push that spurred her towards her son.

Eventually the trees of the vast forest thinned and the great Castle burst into view. There was no movement within it, or none that could be detected from this distance at least. All was eerily quiet as if no living soul other than themselves dared to linger there. All around them bore the markings of the battle that had raged there, but now stood only silence. Each piece of destruction acting as a monument and relic of what had occurred, appearing stark in contrast when coupled with the ancient building and scenerick surroundings. It was an unnerving sight as it always is to see the mighty fallen.

All to soon though, the silence was broken, as the victory procession moved across the grounds; black silhouettes in the night.

Voldermort shouted his victory into the silent blackness, each word swelling with sadistic pleasure and stung like the lashings of a whip. He bade them, exit their fortress if they and their families wished to live.

Obediently they came, congregating at the scene, a trance of muted shock and despair holding them to silence.

Suddenly, a singular scream rang out, seemingly freeing a torrent of others, the sound was one of anguish and of loss, but more than that, they were the screams of those who were damned, those who knew what was coming and were forced to watch its approach. To them, Harry Potter, The Chosen One, was dead. Friends, comrades, even acquaintances, all cried their despair into the night. A feeling Narcissa knew only to well. Their cries held deeper significance to her now than she ever thought possible.

The Dark Lord called them harshly to silence. A bang and a flash of light stealing the voices of those unwilling to pacify. The two opposing armies regarded each other with cold stares. Separated by belief, fused so tightly by just their sheer existence. A wizard would strike a wizard down. Why? Senseless futility.

Voldermort paced in the center of the void that separated the two armies, Harry Potter's body the centerpiece of the gathering laid at his feet in a physical depiction of hierarchy, relishing every moment of his glory, savoring the enjoyment.

There was no righteousness in his cause, only brutality and senselessness. It had almost cost Narcissa her husband and her son, in all sense it had almost cost her her life, and what reward would she have reaped if those two things had come to pass? A sense that the greater good had been achieved? Hardly. Despair, that is what would have awaited her. But not now, now she refused to be parted from either of them. Whatever happened tonight she would make sure that they were together. If death came on swift wings, then it would claim three lives instead of its demanded one.

Quite unexpectedly one of the Hogwarts defenders broke ranks and charged at the Dark Lord, intent adorning his eternally rounded looking face, despite its slight haggardness.

Lord Voldermort reacted calmly and coolly. His challenger was thrown backward, heaped on the floor he gave a grunt of pain.

Voldermort cast aside his challengers wand and laughed indulgently.

"And who is this?" He purred almost delightedly, a warning sound from a poised snake, "who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost."

Narcissa heard her sisters gleeful laughter and it burned like acid under her skin, in that moment, she despised Bella's selfless and irrevocable devotion to her master. Her sisters singular weakness.

"It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Auror, remember?"

Narcissa regarded the boy who verged on manhood, if he were not there already, as he clambered unsteadily, but unhurt – still managing to retain and exude a sense of dignity that seemingly left even himself in awe – to his feet; the fire of passionate belief still smoldering in his eyes.

Longbottom? Narcissa cast her mind back to explore the realms of vague remembrance. The son of Frank and Alice, the two Aurors who had succumbed to their madness at Bella's hands following the Dark Lord's downfall? Yes. The one and the same. A chill ran down Narcissa's spine.

This boy was brave, and while all those who opposed Voldermort stood united behind him, looking ready to defend him to the death if it came to that. His nerve and defiance alone propelled him forward, to break ranks from their unity and face the Dark Lord alone.

His unprotected and easily targetable position only increased Narcissa's longing for her son, who existed in a parallel predicament far out of reach and with no supporting army. A small moan of desperation broke through her unwilling lips, lost in the despairing and hope consuming standoff.

Lucius drew her closer to him, the contours of her body perfectly molding to his own, until it was almost as if they were one united being instead of two individuals. A rock from which both could draw strength.

"But you are pureblood, aren't you, my brave boy?" Continued Voldermort, assessing Neville in a new right. The boy faced him, hands curled into fists and evident distaste on his face.

"So what if I am?" He demanded boldly.

"You show spirit, and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom." Voldermort spoke in an even tone while his eyes blazed with hunger and with greed.

"I'll join you when hell freezes over," spoke Neville passionately. "Dumbledore's Army!" he called. There was an avid answering cheer from the crowd.

Quivers snaked through Narcissa at that name, acting as a stark reminder of what could already have been lost, and what still hung in the balance. Draco had failed, just like she had knew he was supposed too. Her son was no cold hearted killer, he was a mere boy who had been charged with a task ultimately impossible and irrevocably soul destroying. The unbreakable vow had been fulfilled.

The months that proceeded had been just a little more bearable, but ultimately humiliating. The Malfoy's reduced to less than servants within their own home, openly ridiculed at every opportune occasion and held in such low regard that it was almost contempt. But the one thing that rendered all this of little importance, and perhaps even bearable; they were together. Reunited at long last when it seemed certainty demanded them separated.

Now, once again, their unity was threatened and their final fight to preserve such began thereon after.

"Very well." The neutralness in Voldermort's tone rung danger. "If that is your choice Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head, be it." He spoke so quietly, barely inaudibly and yet, so sincerely.

In one swift and fluid motion, Voldermort raised his wand, brandishing it expertly. Moments later a bedraggled and worn object, whose shape was indistinguishable, sored through one of the shattered panes of the vast windows, coming to rest in Voldermort's hand. He shook the crumpled object until it unfolded and took shape.

Quickly darting eyes confirmed a recognition for the sorting hat.

Narcissa recalled the vague memory of herself, just eleven years old, stepping up to take her place beneath it awaiting sorting. She felt a slight sadness stir in her heart.

"There will be no more sorting at Hogwarts school," announced Voldermort. "There will be no more houses. The emblem, shield and colours of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone, wont they, Neville Longbottom?"

Neville had no opportunity to protest as Voldermort's wand centered upon him rendering him as a rigid statue. The ragged hat was forced onto Neville's head by its bearer, so that it slipped past the young mans eyes.

Nervous movements came from the crowd, and, as one, the Death Eaters turned their wands upon their adversaries, affirming they remained in place. Narcissa and Lucius, wandless, remained deathly still and silent in the background.

"Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me," were his menacing words.

With a singular flick of his wand, Voldermort caused the sorting hat to burst into a plume of flames.

Wild screams echoed in the night as Neville was set aflame, still bound and unmoving. Desperate pleas for mercy bounced off deaf ears, and still the flames burned fiercer.

Suddenly, something seemed to change, and the pandemonium that followed was unimaginable, consisting of confusion, wonder and fearful excitement for the most part, but tinged with the outrage that emanated from one person alone.

Centors crashed through the dark foliage, swarming across the grounds, calling battle cries; their bows twanging in a rhythm all of there own and a thunderous army of hooves battering the ground. They appeared almost out of thin air, as if answering some unheard summons. Threstrals sweeped like ghosts in the night, invisible against the dark sky. They swooped down on their prey like silent, lethal hunters; scattering the Death Eaters. The giants stamped angrily as the solitary member of their kind who worked rather to protect than destroy lumbered round the side of the castle, his shouts in broken, unintelligible English adding to the confusion.

Voldermort's giants reared in offense, emitting monstrous roars as they charged, the earth quivering beneath their steps.

In a swift, fluid motion, Neville broke free of the body-bind curse that had thus far held him trapped. He removed the flaming hat with quick and nimble finger work, dropping it to the ground and retrieving from its blackest depths; a silver handled, ruby encrusted sword. The sword of Godrick Griffendoor.

The whooshing slash of silver blade was lost to the surrounding din, but yet every person present was aware of its strike.

It was like time neglected to move forward for a single second.

In one fell movement Nagini was slain, the snakes head spinning wildly in the air like an oversize catherin wheel, while the immense body slunk from the Dark Lord's shoulders and plummeted to the ground, where it remained motionless thereon after.

Voldermort practically screamed in rage – his face betraying more raw emotion in that second than in the countless merciless deaths he had suffered upon people, but such a small fraction was lost to the cruelty of his features ere it got a chance to confirm itself – but the sound of fury was stolen by the attack surrounding.

There was thunderous movement and a deafening din of many voices working as one to say a host of different matters. But from its depths a booming voice rung out loud and clear.

"HARRY! HARRY – WHERE'S HARRY?"

There were renewed shouts as Death Eater's and Hogwarts defenders alike scanned the vicinity and found nothing. Their view distorted by the intermittent crowd.

For a moment, no-one paid any attention to those surrounding them, too consumed by their own frantic flees to wonder about anyone other than family and friends. For Lucius and Narcissa, this was the now or the never, and it was most defiantly going to be now.

"Come on." Narcissa tugged urgently at Lucius' hand and together the both of them slipped away unnoticed.

The wizards were forced to pull back into the refuge of the castle. Death Eaters and Hogwarts defenders alike in a singular mas. Curses flew, voices screamed, bodies fell, windows smashed and stone crumbled.

Through it all, Narcissa and Lucius ran, abandoning all pretense and loyalty, screaming for their son.

Their desperate shouts were echoed all around, the clarity of the words distorted. Like a perfectly choreographed dance of dangerous proportions, Narcissa and Lucius weaved their way through the swarming crowd, reacting on instinct and compulsion.

Dread consumed them like the coldness of winter as they frantically searched the corridor that was quite certainly devoid of Draco's presence.

Amidst the chaos, a jet of red light brushed so close to Narcissa's head that she felt it ripple her hair as it rocketed past. The unintended attack startled her, and Lucius, in one swift motion, half turned; plunging his hand into the depths of his robes and reading himself to fight. In that instant quite forgetting that he remained wandless. A shadow of his former self passed over him for that insubstantial moment; protecting, ready and unafraid.

"Leave it!" begged Narcissa, whipping him back round again and urging him forwards.

It felt unreal, like a dream sequence unfolding featuring someone else's lifetime, Narcissa thought. She didn't feel her feet as they made contact with the stone floor below them, nor did she feel her heart as it beat wildly in her chest. They both seemed strangely detached, unimportant.

Bodies littered the hall way, slumped lifelessly, each of their faces reflecting their last moments of life. Some looked peaceful, and if not for the stillness of their hearts, could have been sleeping. Most though were marred with expressions of pain, anguish and fear. Alone they had been, when the last seconds of their existence drained away into darkness.

Their search led them in ever ascending circles, the sounds of the violent fighting that was concentrated in the Great Hall grew quieter and quieter, until an unnerving silence descended. A silence that seemed to bring with it darker thoughts, and blanket all hope, eerie and oppressing.

In that time it was easier than perhaps it should have been, to forget about everything else in the world. Forget about the battle that raged below. Forget about the future of the wizarding world as it hung so precariously in the balance. There was only one thing in her heart of hearts that mattered at that moment.

What if they were to late? Foreboding thoughts seeped like liquid ice into her mind before she could stop them. How long ago had it been since Harry Potter had glimpsed her son? Would it really be the lifeless frame, that Narcissa has imagined before, held in her arms, limp and as cold as stone? If so, would his face be peaceful? She wasn't sure she could bear looking at his face so full of fear and anguish. If death were to take only one of her family tonight, she hoped that it would grant her the final mercy of looking to be nothing more than an eternal sleep for her son.

But that was not to be.

She had come too far and fought to hard for not only herself, but for those she loved also, to have her reward snatched away from her at the very last second. For he was her reward. Any other outcome would've been a severe wrong doing.

He emerged then, his face blackened by ash, his hair disheveled and his clothes torn; but very much alive. His eyes were restless, hinting at his uncertainty of what came next, his worry of what he had done. He was barely recognizable. Once again Naricissa was reminded of the small boy lost in a world that he didn't understand. Tears rolled down her cheeks**.**

It took a moment, as all three sets of eyes spoke their stories; pain, fear, happiness and anguish.

"Draco? Draco!" Mother rushed forward to embrace her son with father following closely behind. The three of them, reunited at last.

*******************

This, she could have never expected, never even have dared to hope for. It seemed like a dream, and a good one at that. The sort that folks would do anything just to stay asleep that little bit longer for. But all dreams had one vital flaw, they had to end upon waking; and it was this simple fact that separated reality from it's dreamlike state. If she closed her eyes and reopened them it would be to find things exactly how they were, this would never be taken away from her. Lord Voldermort was dead, her husband and son were safe; right there by her side where they rightfully belonged. All fear, all shame and all humiliation had been lifted from the trio. The Malfoy's had partook in the battle and eventually had won the war, for themselves, and, inadvertently, for those around them.

Narcissa, Lucius and Draco sat alone on the far side of the Great Hall. They distanced themselves from ever other person in the room, outsiders in the celebrations of the Dark Lords downfall, and intruders upon the mournings for loved ones. These people were once enemies, and now, they were equals. Neither of the three knew whether they belonged, or whether they were even wanted amidst the celebrations. Instead they looked on with careful expressions. Would they be accepted, or rather, did they deserve to be?

Naricissa's jubilation at the Dark Lords defeat was tinged with sadness at the loss of her sister.

Bellatrix had fallen while fighting alongside her master, the death she would have desired. Narcissa wished however, for just a moment, Bellatrix could have experienced what it was like to live without fear of torture and exempt from control by another, to be free of will. But then again, Bella's love for her master ran so deep that perhaps it was better that she had not witnessed his great fall from power. Perhaps she never could have been happy, with his absence in her life. Surely it was better for her to have died with the image of her masterful Lord domineering and great in her mind, than to have witnessed him crumble, taken by the very thing he had tried to escape for so long. Death.

Bellatrix's death had put things into perspective, the pain of losing a sister was great. She had died for a cause that was meaningless, simple, pompous and arrogant. Voldermort's rule was over, shattered, surely then too, shouldn't his ideas on blood status and it's divide within the wizarding world, be too? Otherwise, if not, that made they no better than the Dark Lord had been.

Naricissa had all she had ever wanted, and her strength of character and her determination had granted it to her. This was her reward for her commitment, bravery and belief in the face of uncertainty. Her light at the end of her long, dark tunnel and her silver lining in the mass of churning grey clouds. Her son. Her husband. Her family.

As the celebrations continued, slowly, she reached out and took her sons hand in her own. He did not protest and gave it to her willingly. For one dire moment her had believed his mother dead. It made his breath catch in his throat even now just thinking about what he could have lost.

He squeezed her delicate fingers lightly to let her know that he was there, and always would remain so. She squeezed back, letting him know the same. So much determination she had shown to keep him safe. He was eternally indebted.

"I love you mother," he whispered quietly.

"I love you too," she whispered back. It was a simple exchange. There was time enough for grand gestures of affection later. All the time in the world in fact.

She then reached out her other hand, searching for her husbands. She found it and the two became entangled. The three of them linked, joined by love, with Naricissa in the center, their anchoring lock.

"I made you a promise," she spoke softly to her husband.

"And you kept it," was his breathless reply of admiration."You truly are wonderful."

It was Narcissa's actions that saved her husband and son from Azkaban and her bravery which spurred her to lie to the Dark Lord, abandoning all loyalty, that erased the mistakes of their pasts. It was her love that bound them all together and her determination that kept them that way. It was her hope that had reunited them and her commitment that kept them all safe, even when the odds were impossible. But take credit for these things; she did not, simply to her, they were things any wife or mother would do when threatened with the impossible prospect of losing those she loved.

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**Yup, i have a lovely tendancy to overdo. I don't know why edit in my book constitues as make longer. Unsolved mystery :P**

**Again, many thanks for reading :) **

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	3. Andromeda

**_And now we are back up to date. This chapter follows Andromeda and Teddy in realtion to Tonk's and Remus' death, immediatly after and then a few years proceeding._**

**_Still don't own anything. _**

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**Andromeda**

_For the sake of family  
__blood and otherwise. _

The air pulsated with static as the foreign matter contained in it became denser; finally solidifying into the figure of a woman – bowed with grief, her wide eyes; puffy and bloodshot, were ringed with red – baring in her arms an infant.

The pleasant weather, Andromeda felt, was almost mocking of her grief, there was no chill breeze to caress her face and chase away the numbness that engulfed her, nor to set a-quiver the hem of her black dress robes, stirring life into it's stillness. There was no unnatural fog to shroud her mournful figure in solitude. The weather was bright in victory, a victory that she did not feel.

Baby Teddy, clutched in her arms remained unnaturally still and silent, his little face buried in the crook of her neck.

The fight; long and perilous had been won, the wizarding world victorious, but to her it felt like the fight had only just begun, and she had very little strength and a waining will to keep on battling when all she wished to do was concede to her grief. But for one reason, which she clutched tightly at in her arms now, she had to remain strong.

Teddy shivered suddenly against her despite the warmness of the day. With teardrop blue eyes filled with sadness, he gazed up into her face.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," she spoke softly, her voice constricted with repressed emotion that she forced into a tone of reassurance, brushing aside his for-the-moment, long brown hair a placing a delicate kiss on his forehead.

"Everything is going to be okay," it was more empty hope – a fools hope perhaps; that stirred her heart into believing the divine possibility that somehow, in this state of wrongs, the ultimate result could be right – than the solid promise it claimed. One thing she remained adamant about though; was Teddy's wellbeing, she would ensure it, maintain it and defend it, and perhaps, in that sense, everything would be okay.

She entered the house that spoke too loudly of happier times and held too many ghosts of remembrance. The silence now seemed deafening, too loud and dominating to bear.

She placed Teddy on the floor amidst his toys, but unlike any other infant his age, he did not reach instinctively for them. Instead he sat completely upright, his doleful eyes sweeping across the room again and again. He anxiously chewed his small thumb while he continued to search. The longer her looked without any results, the more agitated he became; before finally, he slumped, defeated against the settee, small and silent tears spilling from his eyes.

Andromeda had witnessed this behavior with increasing regularity over the past few days, it had climaxed to occurring almost every time he entered a different room. It was as if he expected his parents to step from a disillusionment charm, scoop him up into their arms and smother him with kisses like they had done so many times before. But now, they never ended their game. He may not have understood what was going on, but he could sense something was drastically wrong. Andromeda possessed no way of explaining to him why, in the middle of the night; when he called desperately for his mummy and daddy, they never came to him to alleviate his grief.

A pang of anguish coursed through her at these distressing sentiments. Traitorous tears to her cause, stung her eyes as she battled against their onslaught, unwilling to let another stain her already dampened cheeks.

Carefully, she lent across her grandson to retrieve the barely consumed bottle she had offered him this morning. The little guy was off his food, too miserable to eat for reasons that he was too young to understand. He wasn't particularly an avid eater in the first place, dithering around and too readily distracted. If he didn't eat straight away then Dora – her throat suddenly became constricted for a moment, making it seemingly impossible to breath, and thus to live. The first time was always the hardest, after which, you knew what to expect. – she would always leave it for a while.

Taking deep, measured breaths, she crossed the room and pulled open the door ready to leave through it, when Teddy gave a small whimper in protests of her withdrawal.

She turned around to reassure him, only to find the small boy sitting with his fists clenched and his eyes screwed up in concentration. His long hair seemed to retract back into his head, accumulating into a shorter style, and its dull brown colour alighted to a shock of bubblegum pink. The shade preferred by his mother.

The bottle shook violently in Andromeda's hands as her grandson gazed at her with such intensity, almost as if he was trying to convey something through his unwavering stare. She had never witnessed him do this before, his previous morphing had always been involuntary, and it caught her off guard; sending spiderweb cracks skittering across the face of her sensitive composure. Her heart hammered thunderously and her stomach lurched in shock before twisting in a knot of grief. From the tears she had kept at bay thus far, a singular one cut its wet track down her blotched cheek; unchecked and unchallenged.

She turned away from the boy, unwilling to let him see her distress and said in a voice as strong as she could force it;

"I'll be back in a minute, Teddy."

Her only reply came in the form of Teddy's small, inconsolable cries that could neither be soothed nor comforted by herself.

Why had this happened? How had she lost so much in such a short elapse of time? How could life possibly go on after this? Why was her mind plagued with a multitude of unanswerable questions?

She entered the kitchen in a trance, her movements orchestrated on autopilot while her mind seemed unable to engage her body and fend for itself.

A small flick of her wand caused the bottle in her hands in a skittering fashion to empty its contents in the general vicinity of the sink, splashing onto the worktops and dotting the floor. Andromeda however, remained oblivious.

Quite suddenly, her raw sadness dissipated and was replaced by a thick numbness that was neither comforting nor distressing, but it a way seemed worse, more intolerable than open grief.

Grief was a part of the healing process, it gave one the impression of doing _something_ despite the fact that it could not reverse its cause. This numbness gave the impression of existing in a state of limbo, which only ensured to prolong the agony it claimed to protect from. It made things seem less real, and she could not reside in a world of delusions when ties of love and need kept her anchored to reality.

How was it that a person could be there one moment and gone the next, just as easily as extinguishing the flame of a candle? Shouldn't death be a more fitting tribute to the life it takes? The crescendo at the end of a powerful, celebratory piece. Should not life be less easy to smite out?

With another flick of her wand; the teapot lumbered painfully to the edge of the counter, where it dithered for a moment before nose diving off the counter top and smashing loudly against the floor; setting shards of pottery skidding and the brown liquid contained within seeping in an ever expanding puddle from the sight of the collision, discolouring the white tiles.

The smash brought her none too kindly from her thoughts as, with a dazed expression, she observed the anarchy around her.

"Oh! Oh dear!" she exclaimed at the mess her own wayward spells had created; their usual preciseness sorely neglected.

Before she could right her wrongs, however, there came a sudden rap on the front door, where beyond, just visible through the translucent panes stood the figure of a young man; rather slight in build and who's hair, even through misted glass gave the impression of being perpetually untidy.

Out of habit more then concern for threat of danger, Andromeda raised her wand. With a slight flick, the door to the living room where Teddy resided, swung closed and locked; a whispered incantation saw a protective charm placed on said door.

Her wand reaffirmed at the center of the figures chest, she called;

"Door's open. Come in if you will."

She watched the young man step inside, attired similarly to her in black dress robes and baring a sorrowful expression. Despite her anguish she couldn't help feeling in slight awe of his presence, but that awe was tinged with something else.

Upon the threshold stood Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. The man exactly a week ago who had stood and faced He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named with such undeniable courage and won a monumental victory at his defeat. And here, again, stood the boy who had arrived once before in equally as troubled times.

Despite her indebted gratitude for what he had done, she could not help but feel slightly resentful. Victory came at a price, she knew that, but right now victories price seemed too much to have been asked. It was every mothers nightmare to bury her child and every wifes to bury her husband, and yet she had suffered through both. Her only small comfort was the fact that neither her daughter, nor son-in-law had to endure living without each other.

The messy, black haired man watched her cautiously as she lowered her wand, muttering about old habits dying hard. Extracting something from his pocket, fluffy and blue in colour he offered it to her.

"You left this behind at the service. I figured it was something you wouldn't want to lose."

Andromeda drew in a shaking breath as she reached for the blanket monogrammed with the initials T.R.L. Recognition hastening her movements. It was the blanket she has knitted a few months previous and it remained the same blanket that Nymphadora had swaddled Teddy in before she'd left. Both parents that night, had paved promises to return safely to him. But they never did.

It still held 'Dora's vague scent trapped between the fibers and had been the only thing that was able to lull Teddy that past week.

Was that why he had behaved so startlingly before? Had he been trying to alert her of its absence?

She had not even noticed it gone.

The service had been beautiful and profoundly saddening, and afterwards, being too consumed by her grief and wanting no condolences nor conversation, she left in a rush; informing very few of her departure. She hadn't realized, up until that moment, how careless she had been to misplace something so valuable.

Thought of the funeral inadvertently triggered her once again to behold the image that was brutally burned into her mind. Of the white grave partially shadowed by the wispy greenery of a great willow tree. It bore the emblem of Hogwarts and announced the final resting place of Remus and Nymphadora Lupin. Man and Wife, beloved daughter and son-in-law, and proud parents.

She could recall that night with painful clarity. How it began, and how, ultimately, it ended.

_The minute finger circled its course round to eleven O'clock. The sky outside was a deep royal purple, lighted only by a scattering of stars and a glowing crescent moon._

_Within a large house that stood at the corner of a deserted country lane, half concealed in the darkness; sat Nymphadora and Remus Lupin, relaxing after a particularly tiering day._

_Crackling blue flames danced in the ornate fireplace, never singing the wood that should have fueled them. Despite their frigid colour they emanated warmth._

_Tonks lay stretched out on the couch, her head in Remus' lap, and Teddy sleeping peacefully against her chest, her arms encircling him. Remus smoothed locks of bright, bubblegum pink hair from her face, parting the tresses with his fingers. _

_A wireless in the corner played consecutive hits from The Weird Sisters in a tribute night. It was turned down low enough to just be background noise, as not to cause disturbance to Teddy. Every now and again Tonks would take to humming an accompaniment to her favorite part of a song. A habit that brought a smile to Remus' eternally troubled face._

_However, every so often she would let her eyes fall closed, and remain so for little short of a minute, before rebelliously snapping them back open again._

"_Why don't you go to bed love?" he asked with a gentle laugh._

"_I would, only I really wanted to stay up and hear the end," she admitted with a guilty smile._

"_You don't really need too," coaxed Remus, "I'm sure you know the words to every song by heart. What's one more listen?"_

"_I do. But that is completely and utterly beside the point."_

_She tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn behind her hand._

"_Okay, so maybe you're right," she huffed when his ever observant and keen eyes caught it._

"_I always am," he joked. _

"_Such a shining beacon of modesty," she quibbed back, rolling her eyes, "but yes, on this occasion you are right. Don't let it go to your head." _

_He chuckled at his wife giving him stern commands as if he were a child._

"_I'll try not to," he replied, adopting an abashed tone. _

_Slowly she lifted herself into a sitting position, her arms firmly supporting Teddy. During the movement however, he stirred softly; opening turquoise eyes that upon their closure has been a deep ocean blue._

"_Sorry honey," she consoled him gently, "you can go back to sleep in a minute." A small smile spread across his face, so pleasant as he was. _

_Since her son was already awake she needed not to take as much care not to jostle him when she stood up. Instead, she changed her hold on him so that he rested on her hip. _

_Leaning forward, she kissed Remus passionately on the lips in means of goodnight. Then, taking hold of his son, Remus whispered; "Goodnight, my boy, sleep tight," and smothered him with kisses, to which Teddy squealed delightedly, before Remus handed him back to his mother._

"_Goodnight," he bade them both. _

_At the living room door Tonks halted, turning back to Remus with a small smile she said, indicating the wireless; "you can turn that off now."_

"_No thank you," he replied, his face adorned with a smile of the same nature, "I would quite like to listen to the end, my liking for them has greatly increased thanks to our marriage." She gave a small chuckle and a shake of her head before departing._

_It was thirty minutes after she had took her leave when things in the house began to stir. This elapse in time found Remus stretched horizontal against the length of the couch. His eyes remained closed although he wasn't sleeping and the wireless still continued to play in the background. _

_There was a rush of wind, seemingly emanating from no-where since all the windows had been closed earlier, followed by a distant galloping of hoofs and finally; a brilliant light that seemed able to easily surpass the protection his closed eyelids offered, and burn his retina's just the same as if he were glaring into its source. _

_He sat up with a start. Even more unsettled was he to find before him an apperation of a horse, consisting of a silvery mist that seemed to possess a solidic quality; which he recognized outright as a patronus._

_The silvery horse pounded the ground and threw back its head, its long untamed mane flowing in some otherworldly wind. The patronus seemed to exude anticipation. _

_Remus gripped the couch with whitening knuckles, fearing the worst from the foreboding creature before him, waiting for it to speak._

_Its voice rung out eerily, consisting of many layers of sound that just didn't quite seem to fit together in harmony, and sounding very similar, albeit marred with distortion, to that of Fred Weasley._

_Teddy had awoken to the sound and commenced crying, Remus could hear, as if from a great distance, the echo of Nymphadora attempting to comfort him, but the patronus' few and frank words seemed to deafen him thereon after._

"Trouble at Hogwarts. Harry has returned. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named pursues. Assistance required. Entrance granted via the Hog's Head."

_The instant its message has been relayed, the patronus dissipated; leaving in its wake a very troubled man. _

_Remus could feel what little colour his pale complexion possessed, draining from his cheeks. It was not fear that brought about this response as one might have supposed, but realization. A realization that this could be the end. The end of what he didn't care to specify to himself._

"_Remus? Remus! what's going on? I heard voice's, is everything okay?" Tonks called from the hall, now fully roused. _

_He couldn't seem to formulate words of answer, struck momentarily dumb as he was. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, each passing so quickly that he barely got to acknowledge them before they were gone. An unsettled feeling lay thick in the pit of his stomach, as he became consumed with the doubts of 'what if.'_

"_Do we have guest's?" Tonks persisted. "Remus?"_

_He neglected to answer her again and ere long he caught that sound of her quiet and measured footsteps making their approach._

_The lounge door burst open quite suddenly;_

"_Remus John Lupin! -" she stood with an exhausted Teddy one hip and her free hand on her other in a stance partial annoyance. But upon catching a glimpse of his face, the features of which marred with trouble, her previous annoyance dissipated immediately and was replaced by concern. _

_She approached him, Teddy still in her arms, and kneeled before him; placing her hand on his knee. She looked up into his sincere eyes._

"_Remus. Darling. What's the matter? What's happened?"_

_He relayed the patronus' message to her. She gasped audibly, making no attempt to conceal her shock, at it's conclusion. She covered her mouth with her hand completely aghast._

_For a moment, both parents regarded their son, his small eyes closing again and his thumb comfortingly in his mouth. Before any comment could be passed, or any arrangement made; the air began to pulsate with static and out of it stepped a tall, black wizard donned with traveling attire and earring. _

"_Kingsley?" They questioned simultaneously._

_The wizard in question took one look at their faces and concluded the answer to his unasked question._

"_You've heard then." His tone was solemn as he stated._

"_Kingsley, what's going on? Is it true?" Tonks all but demanded _

"_Yes, we received the message no five minutes ago," Remus confirmed, rubbing his hand against the width of his wifes back in an attempt to sooth her._

_Kingsley bowed his head as he explained, the weight of it seeming almost too much to bear,_

"_Yes. Yes it is true. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is on the move and has turned his attention to Hogwarts. Harry Potter has also returned to Hogwarts after his long absence. Remus, Tonks. I believe this is it. People have been infiltrating the castle for the last hour. If ever there was a time for You-Know-Who's defeat it is now, this will be the great battle that will seal our fate either way."_

_Both parties sat in a thick, stunned silence that seemed to rob the room of all oxygen, and when neither displayed any signs of movement or further acknowledgment towards the situation they had found themselves in, Kingsley added in a tone of urgency;_

"_We must hurry."_

"_Of course," mumbled Tonks, the spell that had beheld her, broken. "I'll quickly pack a bag for Teddy. Just the essentials, and get changed," she amended, looking down at her lose fitting, silken pajama's. "Then we will take him to my mum's. He'll be safe there."_

_Tonks caught Remus' disagreeable expression brought about by what her plans entailed, or rather, what they didn't; but he refrained from passing comment. For the moment. She knew that he would leave that particular minefield until they arrived at her mother's._

_She handed Teddy to his father, smoothing his soft, for-the-moment blond hair against his head, before making her departure._

"_But ... Why the Hog's Head?" Her question stopped her in her tracks and she turned back to regard the tall, dark wizard standing stiffly on the shag pile rug._

"_Time is short, and explanations can be long, my dear 'Dora," replied he, just as urgent as before. _

"_Yes, of course!" She hastened to ready herself and prepare the essentials required for the trip._

_The two wizards were left alone in the lounge._

_Teddy gave an agitated yell, and regarded his father with sad, bright eyes._

"_I know. I know," cooed Remus, "you're tired, little guy, and we keep disturbing you. You can sleep soon, just hold on for a little while longer," he shushed his son._

"_You know, you have a beautiful son," said Kingsley, smiling gently at the infant who had turned his eyes upon the stranger, "I'd wager it burdens you to leave him even for just a moment."_

_Remus gave a solemn nod; "Every moment I'm away from him I resent myself that little bit more for leaving. Him and 'Dora both," he spoke aggrieved._

_Tonks returned a few minutes later, attired in more suitable clothing and baring a roughly and untidily packed bag in one hand, and having a blue blanket clasped in her other. _

_Remus, in a act of gentlemanly manners, immediately took the bag from her and handed Teddy back to her instead. She swaddled him in the blanket which served the double purpose of providing comfort and warmth._

"_Ready?" inquired Kingsley gravely. Tonks nodded her confirmation, giving the lounge one last sweeping glance to ensure that everything was in order. A flick of her wand extinguished the blue flames; leaving the fireplace looking untouched._

_She took hold of Remus' hand and gripped it tightly in her own, he gave hers a reassuring squeeze. As one, the three wizards turned simultaneously on the spot and disapperated; leaving the comfortably furnished lounge quite devoid of inhabitants. _

_A moment later, within which breathing seemed to be taken as an intolerable crime, the party appeared in an equally uninhabited sitting room. The illumined lamp in the corner and a laid aside book, who's pages were turning absentmindedly; gave the room an impression of only recently having been vacated._

"_Mum?" called Tonks, a note of panic evident in her tone as these were still dark times. "Mum, where are you?"_

_There came hurried footsteps from the kitchen that announced Andromeda's presence and arrival. She appeared, clad in a nightgown, at the archway of the sitting room._

"_Nymphadora! Remus!" she exclaimed, her eyes falling across and resting upon the third wizard in turn as they scrutinized him with suspicious intensity. Whatever her thoughts, she did not voice them aloud._

" _What brings you here at this late hour?" she offered her family a warm smile, but it faded from her lips when she properly assessed their troubled expressions._

"_What's happened? What's wrong?" she rushed out, almost too afraid of the answer._

_Duly she noticed their traveling cloaks and the roughly packed bag in Remus' hand that suggested they had left in a hurry. _

"_Dear God! Please tell me you're okay!" she begged of the pair, frantically._

"_We're okay," Tonks reassured her with as much calmness as she could muster in the present situation. "We're not on the run. The bag is for Teddy, I need you to look after him, at least for tonight." Tonks explained. _

"_Of course. But why?" Andromeda asked warily._

_Tonks launched into an explanation, with occasional additions from Remus. Kingsley remained statuesque, silent and solemn. _

_At its conclusion, Andromeda's eyes shone bright and fearful from a pallid, white face, and it was with shaking hands that she reached out for Teddy, momentarily unable to utter a sound. Tonks surrendered her son to her before taking her place at Remus' side._

"_You can't go!" insisted Andromeda._

"_We have too," said Tonks firmly, as if she had been ready for this opposition. "We would not by any choice of our own leave Teddy, but both of us knew the danger and the risks when we willingly joined The Order Of The Phoenix. We made a commitment, to hinder and ultimately stop You-Know-Who, we knew what that entailed. It's our duty to go, and I'm not going to turn away from it at the pinnacle moment." She spoke passionately, a flicker of her much younger self passing over her for a second._

"_I think what your mother is trying to say 'Dora," said Remus gently, laying his free hand on her shoulder, "is that _you _cannot go, and I quite agree." Andromeda nodded heartily._

_Tonks was outraged. This was what Remus had been biding his time to say ever since his expression had darkened earlier. She knew why he did it, he did not think himself a worthy enough man to alone forbid her to do something, and although this self degradation saddened her, it did not alleviate her anger at that moment._

"_But why?!" For a moment her hair became the colour of a burning flame as her emotions engulfed her. But upon taking a steadying breath, it returned to its previous bubble gum pink shade._

"_I can't bare the thought of losing you," admitted Remus stiffly._

"_And you think I can bare the thought of losing you?" Her voice reached a hysterical pitch. Remus went to speak but Tonks cut his off._

"_I know what you are going to say, Remus, and your greatest downfall is that you don't value yourself enough. Just for one moment, entertain the notion that I couldn't bare losing you just as much as you can't bare to lose me ... Now tell me to stay," she challenged._

"_I can't," he spoke tightly, his face flushing with shame. "But if you won't stay for yourself, then stay for the sake of our son, stay for your mother, and if you deem it of equal comparison, stay for my sake. My world _is _nothing without you and that's the truth, don't take my paradise away from me." _

"_Oh Remus!" She threw herself at him, her arms encircling him and holding him close, his likewise the same. _

_The scene was so tender that all in the room felt intrusive for just being there to witness it. Before long the two broke apart, each pair of eyes glistening with unfallen tears that they fought valiantly against._

"_Kingsley?" Tonks appealed hopelessly to her fellow aurora._

"_I can't deny that I want you to come, no doubt your skill would be nothing less than an asset, but I cannot override the will of your family," he told her sadly. _

"_Of course. Thank you anyway, my friend," she replied gravely. _

_Tonks turned her gaze back to the aged face of the man she loved, her eyes stinging with the sheer effort she was exacting to keep her tears at bay. _

"_Make it back to me," she chocked, pleadingly._

"_I promise I will," he pledged, his voice equally as strangled._

_He kissed her quickly and passionately for a second, rudely for once giving no consideration to those present in the room around him; before approaching his son, clutched in his mother-in-laws arms, to bid his final farewell. _

"_You be good buddy. Always remember that daddy loves you and he's so, so proud of you, my little man. I promise that I'll see you soon." He smoothed Teddy's hair off his forehead and delicately kissed it. Teddy, unable to comprehend what was going on, just stared up at him with wondrous eyes. _

"_Be careful." Andromeda begged of him. _

"_I will be." He gave her a small kiss on the cheek._

_Resuming his place at Kingsley's side, who was looking increasingly more uncomfortable, he reached for Tonks' hand; she complied and for a moment it seemed like neither was willing to let go and allow this moment to fade into just memory. _

_His parting words to her were;_

"_I love you." He then brought her hand up to press against his smooth lips for a second, before letting it fall back to her side. Each felt a weightily sadness fall over them._

_Kingsley inclined his head to Tonks in means of a farewell, a gesture which she only just managed to return before the two wizards turned simultaneously and disapperated. _

_Silence followed their departure. Neither mother nor daughter could find anything to say to each other, words being no more than hollow sounds and indecent gestures at that moment in time. Andromeda quickly set about arranging the cushions on the couch into a makeshift mattress for Teddy to sleep on, and accounting for the objects in the bag Remus had left. _

_Tonks, with her face turned to the wall, let many a silent tear fall in grievance for the separation of her from her husband and subsequently the worry that came with this. The constant question of her husband and friends safety resided in the forefront of her mind._

_With all her tears finally spent, she gave forth to pacing to and fro. This continued for an extended period, her mind all the while wandering to the one place on Earth she longed to be, despite the danger it was fraught with. Finally the silence became too much for her to bare._

"_How long have they been gone?" she asked of her mother longingly._

"_About twenty minutes," whispered Andromeda – who had not long soothed Teddy back into slumber and was unwilling to give him cause to be awoken – verifying her answer by a quick glance at the carriage clock on the mantle piece and then regarding her daughter with a worrisome look. _

"_It feels more like twenty hours," Tonks murmured disparagingly._

_Tonks renewed her pacing, but this time it was only a brief occurrence, before she halted to pour fourth a tsunami of questions;_

"_Where are they? ... Do you think they have arrived yet? ... Do you think they're okay? ... What are they doing? ... Is You-Know-Who there? ... Has the fighting began? ... Do you think they are injured? ... Can we really hope to beat You-Know-Who? ... What's Harry's plan? ..."_

"_Sweetheart, you know I can't answer any of those questions," said Andromeda sadly._

"_I know," sniffed Tonks, "and neither can I although they persist to trouble me endlessly."_

_Tonks came to sit at her mothers feet; closing her eyes, she laid her head against the older womans legs. Andromeda reached down to run her fingers through her daughters hair in an act of comfort that had soothed her since she was a child. _

"_'Dora. Sweetheart, making you stay behind was not meant as a punishment. Remus and I only want to protect you," explained Andromeda quietly. _

"_I'm being punished by not knowing," she all but wailed._

"_I know." Andromeda let a silent tear fall unchecked. "I know probably better than anyone else, and perhaps in my eagerness to protect you I forgot to consider what pain it would cause you. I'm sorry 'Dora, can you forgive my selfishness?" asked Andromeda dejectedly. _

_Tonks got up onto her knees, and taking each of her mothers hands in her own she said;_

"_Every day while dad was on the run, I watched it eat you up. So desperate were you for information concerning his whereabouts, and so long you went without any. I saw the pain it caused you, although you tried to hide it; for it was also my pain. I knew that if there were ever a chance you could be reunited, no matter for how short or long a time, you would take it, and I would be by your side no matter what the dangers, for I longed to see him just as much as you did. I don't ask you to accompany me tonight; only that you allow me to go. Don't let me suffer your pain when it can be so easily avoided."  
There was silence, in which Andromeda could not bare to look at her daughter, she knew the right thing to do, yet she was averse to doing it. How could she give permission to her own daughters death sentence? She couldn't. She didn't want to, and yet she had too. _

_Tonks' gaze was fixed on her mothers face, and she waited a long time for Andromeda to return the gesture before she spoke. _

"_I've grown older mum, more mature and responsible. I used to enter a fight for the sake of a fight , the exhilaration, the excitement. Of course I never let my fun interfere with my work, but I always felt that I gained more joy from them than anyone else. Mad-Eye said it was because I was naïve, too easily excited by the though of a little danger, and that it was something I would grow out of over time. I used to scoff at him, tell him he was talking nonesence, but he turned out to be correct. I don't relish the thought of this fight and it is for different reasons entirely that I am compelled to it. I have too much to lose to find enjoyment in danger anymore, but I can't sit here not knowing."_

_She gazed intently upon her mothers face, her own tear filled eyes mirrored there. Very slowly, as if the movement caused her great personal grievances, Andromeda nodded her consent. _

_Tonks engulfed her into an embrace._

"_Thank you," she whispered her voice constricted with conflicting emotions. _

"_Be careful." Andromeda spoke with such sorrow and loss that it defeated her pleas. _

_She did not move as Tonks roused the sleeping Teddy. Too anguished was she to do anything but stare into the distance, where it seemed terrible ghosts haunted her._

_Teddy gave a small cry at having been awoken a fourth time, but Tonks quickly soothed him._

"_My beautiful baby boy, I want you to know that I will always love you, no matter what happens. You mean more to me than the entire world ever could. I promise that whatever happens tonight, I'll come back to you, sweetheart ..."_

A triple edged guilt tinged her remembrance; a guilt in herself for allowing them to go, effectively signing their death warrant; a guilt in her selfishness, that had wanted nothing more than to force them to stay; and a guilt in her conscience, or lack there of, that had told her the only form of protection was separation.

"Thank you." Her voice was small and wavering, but still managed to convey her gratitude and her hands shook slightly, cocooned in the fabric.

Moments later, she felt a comforting hand being placed upon her shoulder as Harry entered the kitchen after a small, deliberating hesitation of uncertainty. He spoke quietly, comfortingly;

"Losing someone you love, is the hardest thing you ever have to face, as I am sure you well know. They died hero's, fighting for something they thought strongly of and passionately for, and they shall ever be remembered hero's. They wanted to make the world a safer placed for Teddy to grow up in, and by their courage they helped to make that possible. My sadness is as great as yours when I think about Teddy's loss of parents so young, and perhaps I alone can empathize the true nature of the situation. But Teddy has something that I never had ... you. And that makes all the difference."

Andromeda gazed uncertainly into the green eyes that betrayed his embarrassed discomfort at the words he felt obliged to say, hidden underneath his outward calm. As she watched him struggled through his initial embarrassment in aid to grant her some reassurance – and herself being in two minds whether to intervene and relieve him from his supposed obligations – she saw him as the seventeen year old boy that he was. The unlikely hero, who was too modest to take any credit for his brave deeds and who wanted nothing more than to be left in peace after so long being thrust into the limelight, instead of the figure worth great exultation he represented to the world.

"You alone are the one person who could love him as much and as deeply as his mother, and the one person besides whom, knows him the best."

Something seemed to settle in her mind, a forgotten sliver of hope that had been shrouded by darkness for longer than she cared to remember. His words ringing like an outward confirmation that the feat which she had undertaken was indeed possible. That revelation alone was a miracle in the last trying week.

"Thank you," she repeated her prior statement, her tone unintentionally stiff.

Harry gave a concise nod and offered her a small, and what he hoped to be a reassuring smile, before surveying the untidy kitchen with mild amusement, for a second his face lost some of its hardness. Andromeda too, surveyed the mess; her expression sheepish but marred with confusion.

Extracting her wand, she performed a singular sweeping motion and the scene of chaos righted itself immediately, leaving behind no trace in the pristine kitchen that suggested its previous existence.

She stepped forward, wand held aloft and began to make tea, but her efforts were halted by Harry, who's voice emanated from directly behind her.

"Let me do that," he pleaded; indicating the already boiling teapot. "It's the least I can do," he insisted.

Andromeda relinquished her kitchen to him, feeling strangely useless and unnecessary.

"That is, if it isn't rude of me to offer you a cup of your own tea?" Harry laughed lightly, but there was hesitation there.

Suddenly she felt very wearisome, as if the entire weeks hardships had came down upon her at once to take their toll.

"Some of my own tea would be lovely, thank you." She spoke each word as if it cost her too much energy to say. She wondered vaguely what had come over her, but the answer was pretty much self conclusive. This was the first time in the last week that she had permitted herself, or even had too relinquish any small portion of control in her life, away from herself. The first time she had granted exhaustion a footing in its battle to consume her.

Slowly, she reached for Teddy's bottle which sat on the counter top, but Harry's hand beat hers and removed it from her grasp.

"I'll take care of that also."

Andromeda looked for a moment like she wanted to argue, to take back some control; even if it was just in a menial task, but after a moment or two she conceded.

"Good," Harry smiled. "Go and sit down." He spoke authoritatively, it was a half command, half request, "go and be with your grandson." To that she did not argue.

Five minutes later saw Andromeda sat comfortably on the couch. Teddy, wrapped in his blanket sat upon her knee, snuggled into her embrace; his face still red and blotchy from crying. He chewed on his fingers in a way that suggested either anxiety or hunger, most probably the latter. His hair was now a distinct likeness to Andromeda's.

It seemed to changed mostly of its own accord, depending upon the company he kept or his mood. Never before today had Andromeda bore witness to Teddy change it at his own will. She wasn't sure if it was a one off occurrence, or if the little metamorphmagus was gaining some control over his rare ability. After all 'Dora – he heart skipped a beat at her daughters name, but this time she retained her composure – had made her first intended morph at around his age.

Andromeda rubbed soothing circles in the center of Teddy's back as he continued to sniffle pitifully. To him, she represented the last erect pillar in the temple of ruins that used to be his home, just as he did to her. A relic to an old existence that was no longer possible, but wold eternally hold special significance in the deep chasms of their hearts; offering something solid to grasp onto in the face of frightening uncertainty.

Harry entered the vaguely familiar living room, his wand held aloft and two cups of tea, two glasses of Firewhisky and a babies bottle levitating about his person.

The cups settled either side of the couch upon the two, dark wood, brown end tables . The bottle landed lightly on Teddy's lap, where he toyed with it a while before drinking it. One of the glasses of Firewhisky floated placidly before Andromeda, until she reached out and grasped it, while the other came to settle on the palm of Harry's hand.

"I hope you don't mind," he said hesitantly, indicating the Firewhisky, "I thought we could raise a toast."

"No, I don't mind," confirmed Andromeda. It had been Ted's, a belated Christmas present from a distant cousin, and had spent most of its life pushed to the back of a cupboard. Over time however, Ted had acquired a liking for a glass after a hard day and every now and again it got to glimpse the light. It had remained, however, untouched since ... Well since Ted had been forced to go on the run, and the subsequent occurrence that followed his bravery. It seemed a fitting beverage to raise a toast with.

Harry raised his glass, the red liquid within sparkling in the beams of sunlight that filtered through the window panes.

"To Remus and Nymphadora Lupin; brave comrades and loyal friends. May they rest in peace ..."

"To Ted Tonks, beloved husband and father, and the kindest man to walk the Earth. My one and only true love ..." Her voice, though quivering as she spoke, conveyed profound love and conviction. Even when it was reduced to nothing more than a barely audible whisper, it never lost its intensity.

"To Nymphadora and Remus Lupin, dear daughter and son-in-law and proud parents, who meant more to me than anything in this world ..."

"Too family," summed Harry.

Both drunk deeply from their glasses, tasting their lamentations on their lips and only setting them aside when they were empty.

For a while the two sat in a contemplative silence, the only noise being Teddy's small swallows and the gurgling of the milk as it was drunk.

Andromeda watched her guests eyes sweep the room, taking in the wall of photo's that showed her family through different stages of their lives; the most recent of which depicting Tonks and Lupin holding a newborn Teddy. They caused her great pain to behold, but she could not bring herself to remove them, in a sense it would be like eradicating the last remaining shreds of her family from her life. She notice however, that wherever his eyes were drawn too, they always returned to the arm chair beside the couch, cold and completely devoid of touch or use. Was he recalling the man who had sat there upon his first visit?

Harry was the first to break the thick silence, his eyes coming to rest on Teddy, squirming to get down from his grandmothers knee, the half consumed bottle tossed to the sidelines. Andromeda quietly complied to his wishes.

"I came to discuss something with you." He began, "I'm not certain if you are aware, but before Nymphadora and Remus died they made me Teddy's Godfather."

She _had_ been aware, but in light of recent events that particular thought had ceased to cross her mind.

"Yes, a very admirable decision. One that I supported fully."

"Thank you. I'm sorry I haven't called sooner, things have been ... hectic. Ginny's brother and a good friend of mine lost his life also." Andromeda gave a solemn nod, she quite understood.

"But I am here to offer to help you, should you want it, you don't have to face this alone. I intend to fulfill the duty that was entrusted to me to the best of my ability, if you will allow it," he amended.

"Of course," she said after a small, considerate pause "It's what they wanted, it is only right that I see it done."

A sudden loneliness settled in her heart as, for the first time, reality that they were indeed not coming back seemed to stir within her. She fought back the consuming feeling, now, if any, was not the time to fall to pieces when she needed so greatly to remain strong.

Teddy gave a loud whimper from his position on the floor, holding high both his arms in indication that he wished to be picked back up, evidently finding that this was the better position of the two. His hair was now a most miserable Iron Grey colour and obscured most of his face, a truly forlorn look. Andromeda reached forward and took hold of him, but a moment later he seemed to decide against being picked up and squirmed desperately to free himself.

He was placed back on the floor where he looked round regretfully, before sinking down into a heap and looking thoroughly fed up with the world.

Andromeda reached down a hand and smoothed it through his hair, her fingers sliding easily between the tousled strands. For a moment, he allowed her to comfort him, and in that minuscule passage of time the two were a perfect depiction of serenity, before he pulled away; deciding that comfort was not what he wanted either.

Glistening tears of unreasoned rejection and understanding empathy stung Andromeda's eyes, but like before she fought valiantly against their onslaught.

"The poor thing doesn't know what to do for the better, the one thing he wants he can never have again." Her breath caught in her throat for a second.

Harry reached forward to scoop Teddy up in his arms, ignoring the small boys protests. Supporting him, Harry pulled Teddy up into a standing position with each of his small feet resting upon Harry's legs. Teddy's protests ceased quite immediately. Andromeda watched, intrigued.

"Hey little man." Harry spoke in a tone that was warm and soothing, "so you're feeling pretty miserable, huh? I know something that might cheer you up a little. Do you want to see?"

His reply came in the way of Teddy screwing his eyes up tightly. Harry wasn't alarmed, having witnessed Tonks do this hundreds of times before and being aware of her sons inherited ability.

When he opened them again, their tear drop blue colour was banished, having been replaced by a marvelous green which was a perfect replica of Harry's own eyes.

"Ahha," laughed Harry, "that is quite a talent you have there."

Andromeda gave a loving but slightly exasperated smile.

"Thats the second time he has done that today, morphed intentionally I mean. I'm afraid the first time he done it he rather disarmed me."

Harry shifted Teddy's position so that he sat at the very end of his knee. Raising his wand, he whispered a low incantation, which was followed by four delicate _pops_ and a chorus of tweeting as a quadruplet of brilliantly yellow canneries appeared from thin air.

Teddy gasped audibly and babbled something indecipherable, reaching his short and stubby arms out to try and catch hold of one, but each time one came within his grasp he always lurched forward too late. He laughed and squealed joyously at their presence, all his moroseness banished now that his attention was diverted, his Iron Grey hair showing visible streaks of vibrant yellow making for a very peculiar style.

For a while, that was how the three remained. Teddy enthralled in his spectatorship, Harry every now and again with a slight flick of his wand coaxing the petite birds forward when they retreated, and Andromeda sitting silently, watching, her expression conveying that her mind lay somewhere other than the living room before her. It seemed so easy to just exist in that time, almost as if being locked inside a vacuum, you knew what awaited you on the outside, but the here and now was more than enough; too great for worry and sadness, but just enough for living.

Harry turned to regard her after a particularly long stretch of silence, to find her eyes closed. She could have been sleeping, if it were not for the troubled expression that marred her features.

Turning back to his Godchild, he whispered;  
"Hold out your hand, and keep really still." Teddy did as he was instructed, his small fingers curled as if to cup something and tiny excitable giggles emanated from his person.

With and none-verbal incantation of command from Harry, one of the canneries, which looked to be the smallest, left the company of its fellows to fly smoothly to its creators side. It hovered there for a moment, Teddy's wondrous eyes regarding the spectacle, before, with a few final flaps of its tiny wings, the petite, yellow bird came to rest in the center of Teddy's upturned palm; where it folded its wings away and chirped merrily from its perch.

Teddy's face was alight with pleasure and wonderment, his eyes sparkling with delight to feel the small weight upon his palm that confirmed what he was seeing to be truth. He gave a small squeal of enjoyment, to which the cannery chirped animatedly, completely unstartled.

"Well now, I think he likes you." Harry told the infant with a smile.

Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, Andromeda gasped

Harry regarded her silently for a few moments as she regained her composure, having let it slip for a minute, a small portion of his mind noted that Teddy's laugher had ceased.

"It gets easier," Harry spoke. A fact he remained certain she was well aware of, but wouldn't harm to have reiterated to her.

"I know," she gave a small sigh that seemed to bear the weight of the world and tried to offer him a smile. "I'm not sure if it ever gets easier to remember, but what I do know is that it gets easier to live day to day without thinking about it. Perhaps I can't make myself see that at this precise moment, because the pain is still all too new to me, but I do know, like with any other pain; over time it fades. Heals I suppose. It's still just as strong and just as real if you choose to remember it, but you learn to live again in its absence. Time is afterall the great healer, for with any memory; good or bad, it makes us feel something when we recall it." She paused for a moment, drawing a great breath and then releasing it, before amending, "It's just hard"

"It _is_ hard," agreed Harry, "to have someone you love taken away from you is unbearable. To have to accept that they are never coming back is even more difficult still."

"But not all of them is gone," he motioned towards Teddy, who was regarding them both with a nervous expression, the cannery – still perched on his palm – remained as silent as he did.

"I – I never though of it like that before," confessed Andromeda solemnly, regarding her grandson in a way that suggested she saw things to which she had been previously been ignorant.

"Yes, I see it now, when I look at him I can see both Nymphadora and Remus. I can see their kindness mirrored on his face, and their sparkle of mischief in the set of his eyes."

Andromeda felt a sense of small relief course through her, and some of the tension abate from her muscles, granting her a minor reprieve. But ere long a mournful sadness began to lay over her, loss was always going to tinge her remembrance.

Teddy offered his grandmother a wide grin when he met her gaze, one which she attempted, valiantly to return.

"He alone is the final imprint of them upon this earth," Harry spoke passionately, "Just as I am Lily and James'. They are not completely gone, they live on, through him." He paused for a moment as if uncertain as to whether he should proceed or not, when however, she did not interrupt the silence; he continued, "It was once a great wizard who told me the same, many years ago." At this he smiled, as if recalling a dear memory. "It provided me with comfort, even though I was too young to fully understand what that signified, and now I tell it to you; in the hope that it will do the same."

"And now you tell it to me as a equally as great wizard."  
"Hardly," he said sadly.

The mention of Harry's deceased parents stirred a feeling of melancholy in Andromeda' heart, the cold gloom seeping into her chest and seemingly turning her very breath to ice. The similarity in the parallel situations was unnerving and she found herself wondering aloud, without strictly meaning too;

"Why were they taken from him so young?"

"I doubt anyone can ever justify a reason, and if reasons had to be justified for all the bad in the world, how much do think would be permitted?" Harry answered her unintended question.

Silence enveloped them for a few minutes, the only noise within the room; a chorus of chirps, as both their minds scored far distant lands for answers.

"How am I going to do this?" Andromeda murmured to herself. She knew what she _had _to do, the only thing that eluded her was how to go about it. She would give everything for her only grandson, the world if she could get it, for he was now the sole purpose of her existence. To be wanted and to be needed, two requirements that obliterated everything else in parental eyes.

"What does your heart tell you to do? It will never lead you astray," Harry stated knowingly. Although embarrassment stirred within him again it was clear that he didn't doubt his words.

Andromeda thought for a moment, searching deep within herself, past the pain, past the guilt, past the anguish. Right to her very core of existence.

"It tells me to make certain that he never forgets them. To make sure that he always knows what brave, honorable and loving people they were and how they died making the world a better place for him to live in. It tells me to inform him every day, like it's the first time, how much they love him and will never stop loving him and how proud he makes them feel. It tells me to ensure that he knows, and_ never_ forgets what great people his parents were." She spoke with a passion and determination that even startled herself.

"Then, that is all anyone can ask," said Harry. For a single moment he sounded so much older and in possession of more wisdom than a usual seventeen years passage would allow.

Andromeda could not help but draw comfort, strength and belief from her surroundings. To his statement, she managed a small smile; as honest as it had been in the last trying week.

There was a musical tinkling of bells as the ornate grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the room tolled three.

"I have to go now," announced Harry, glancing up at it. "Family dinner. I would be terrible manners to show up late, about as terrible as offering you a cup of your own tea," he chuckled lightly.

"Ahh, the tea!" Exclaimed Andromeda, finally remembering the untouched beverage beside her seat. Harry smiled amusedly.

"I'm going now little man," he told Teddy, giving the boy's sides a slight tickle which sent him into hysterics. "You be good for your grandma, and I'll see you soon." He hugged the infant before handing him back to his guardian.

With a flick of his wand, the three remaining airborne canneries vanished in the way that they appeared, leaving the room feeling suddenly silent and empty without their presence. The fourth of which still sat obediently in Teddy's palm; for all the world a picture of contentment.

"You can keep that one," grinned Harry, "both seem to have taken a shine to each other. If you ever want to get rid of it however it's just a simple banishing charm."

"No," said Andromeda lightly, observing her grandson with a small smile. "I'd quite like him to keep it, I've missed seeing him so happy these last days."

"Then consider it my gift. First of many."

Harry turned into the hall making his way to the back garden from where he could safely disapperate.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he announced upon crossing the threshold, addressing Andromeda, who had accompanied him to wave him off, still clutching Teddy closely to her in her arms.  
"I'd like to formally invite you both over tomorrow, to The Burrow. Mr and Mrs. Weasley are most eager to have your company."

A look of subtle reluctancy and startled concern passed over Andromeda's face, deepening the already troubled expression that plagued it.

"Oh. Well ... that's awful nice, but I don't wish to intrude," she hesitated, "and I fear I am not particularly good company at the moment."

Harry processed her hesitancy and reluctance, finding them familiar feelings. More often than not, he knew people were averse to leaving the place that was so comfortingly unchanged, even for reasons that were beyond their own comprehension.

"Any company is good company to those who desire it. Mrs. Weasley can empathize your situation, it might do good for you both to talk through matters, or it might not, but you'll never know unless you let yourself try. You don't have to go through this alone, always remember that. Right now is a time of friendship and family. Tonks and Remus were as good as family to Molly and Arthur, I don't doubt that they want to extend the same title to you also. If you will honor their requests. Will you come?" Harry's tone suggested that she was welcome to decline.

Slowly, after a moments consideration, she nodded.

"See you both tomorrow then." He bade them.

With that, Harry turned on the spot and vanished, leaving Andromeda and Teddy standing quite alone at the back garden door. She felt a great weight had been alleviated from her already heavy heart; it was like being able to breath again after a long period submerged underwater, a relief. Things were going to take time, almost definitely, but she felt as though she had taken the first step upon the long road, all she had to do now was keep on walking forwards.

She smoothed Teddy's hair aside, again dark brown like her own, and delicately kissed his cheek. He snuggled into her chest as a return gesture. It was for _his_ sake that she would undertake fight in this next battle and claim her own victory. For the sake of her family.

* * *

_5 years later._

A sombre sun rose slowly that morning, dawned in a blood red sky. Grey clouds persisted on casting their shadows, obliterating the light and momentarily leaving the world in a state of gloom. As each dark spell passed, it seemed to represent something more than a simple shift in the weather. On this anniversary it seemed only right that dark and light should coincide.

"Teddy, honey. Are you getting dressed?" Andromeda called to her grandson from the foot of the stairs; having tolerably ignored the dilatory manner he fulfilled her request in for long enough.

There was a small scuffle in which he'd evidently tried to catch Charlie and return him to his cage before he suspected his grandmother to be any the wiser as to what he had been doing. The canary however, obviously evaded capture, for the next minute Teddy could be heard shushing his friends victorious chirps. When they finally quietened, he called in a voice swelling with innocence;  
"Yes grandma."

Andromeda shook her head slightly, and could not stop an exasperated grin whispering onto her lips. Teddy had a tendency to refer to her as 'grandma,' or some other variation of the word whenever he was lying. This was done apparently subconsciously for he always seemed genuinely surprised when he was found out. While she did not condone lying she knew that it was something every child did, and while it remained about small and inconsequential matters such as the aforementioned, she wasn't prepared to be overly harsh.

"Then why can I still hear you and Charlie playing up there?" she chided gently.

"Sorry! I promise I will now," he repented immediately.

"Good boy," she praised.

Andromeda returned to the kitchen, taking back up her previous employment of scrubbing the work surfaces in compliance with the muggle fashion. It was an unnecessary task when a simple charm would have rendered the entire room spotless, but the menial work offered her an occupation of retreat that distracted her away from sitting and thinking.

Today marked the five year anniversary of the Battle Of Hogwarts, the night in which so much had been won and lost simultaneously. Even now, she could not find elation within its occurrence, only quiet grief. But with each new day that dawned however, she found herself more appreciatively aware of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named's demise. She was able now to find good in what she had initially deemed to be completely rotten, and hope, and a burning passion for life kindled in her heart once again where only before resided despair.

A peace and tranquility had enveloped the wizarding world at Voldermort's depleting influence, although many still remained adamantly opposed to speaking his name aloud. Fear had firstly followed his downfall, a fear that lead people to believe so much dark magic could not be undone in a single night, that again, like before, he would find alternate means to re-kindle his life. A fear that fueled troubled suspicion and reasoned that if it were not he to cast a black shadow over their merriment again, then it would be his supporters in revolt for their masters defeat.

Nothing of the sort had occurred so far, and looked the more increasingly unlikely as week after week, month after month and year after year passed without threat or danger.

By no stretch of imagination had she gotten over the deaths of her daughter, son-in-law and her husband, but she had gained some acceptance for the unjustly crime. Her grief had progressed to a stage that allowed her to look back in fondness instead of despair at what had come to pass. Sometimes, but a single memory could call to her lips that tender smile which she had initially believed banished forever. To say that she wasn't still anguished by her loss was a dire misjudgment. She remained, every so often in the lonely hours of the night, wracked by tears. But with each passing year, it became easier to bear. The aged wounds healed slowly now, never again being wrenched open anew as they were upon that terrible first anniversary.

Having concluded her task, she wrung the wet cloth out over the sink and replaced it on the sideboard. She was just about to seek further occupation, when a shout from upstairs quickly alerted her attention.

"Nanny, I'm stuck!" His little voice conveyed such desperation that without a seconds hesitation, she was out of the kitchen and ascending the stairs two at a time. Her heart beating wildly.

The scene that befell her eyes however, called upon all her reserves of restraint as a parental guardian, to keep from laughing.

Teddy struggled in futile to free himself from the garment he had become entangled in. Somehow he had managed to thread both his head and his arm through the sleeve of his T-Shirt and despite his incessant squirming could not rectify his blunder.

She hurried over to free him from his cotton incarceration. His young mind not registering any embarrassment at the situation, instead he stood tousle haired and smiling at his rescuer who had saved him from the clutches of the enemy. A worthy adventure for the day in his opinion.

"Perhaps I had better help you," she suggested with a small smile, to which Teddy agreed, leaping into her awaiting arms.

She guided his efforts with gentle encouragement and a persistent patience; righting his inside-out socks and fastening the buttons on his lite, airing cardigan when they proved to fiddly an engagement for his small fingers.

Finally she set him upon the edge of his bed, in the act of double knotting his shoe laces lest the come lose. It was in this time that he spoke, with a distant longing, a sentence that would have once had her cowering in shrouded fear for the assault of anguish that would subsequently befall her.

"It's today. Isn't it?" His gaze did not regard her as he spoke, instead it was fixed upon the picture beside his bed, and its moving occupants within.

"Mummy and daddy -" he did not finish his sentence, and he need not have elaborated, for she knew what he had meant from the off-set. He did not grasp fully the concept of death, neither did he understand its finality. But this year, for the first time, he'd seemed to sense when the anniversary drew near.

"Yes dear. Five years today," she answered quite calmly, retaining her composure. She watched him carefully but his eyes remained averted.

"Are you sad, nanny?" His voice was small and timid.

"I am a little, sweetheart. Yes," she admitted partially. "How about you?"

Solemnly, he gave a slight nod of his head. She witnessed a small tear mark its wet track down his cheek, with her thumb she reached up and brushed it away. In the same movement she turned his head so that that two of them were face to face.

"It is okay to be sad," she reassured him.

He nodded but made no further acknowledgment towards her reassurances. She could tell that his torrent of questions had not been stemmed yet, and waited patiently for him to continue.

"Nanny, do I look like them?" His tone was guarded, and his gaze averted back towards the photograph which depicted his mother and father, grinning broadly, holding an hours old version of himself. All three of them blissfully unaware of the cruel twist of fate that lay waiting in the shadows to befall them.

Sometimes, in moments of great sorrow he would sit and observe the people in the picture. Watch his mother hold him so comfortingly that he no longer found need to be unhappy and witness his fathers watchful gaze over him that could not fail to make him feels safe and loved, despite both of their absences from his life. From that simple image he gained great tranquility.

"Yes dear, you look very much like them. Everything from the set of your eyes to the slight angular point to your nose." Those specific features had once caused her great pain to behold, but now they served as a beautiful reminder of her daughter and son-in-laws presence, which lived on through him.

"But I won't always look like them though, will I?" He pressed, sounding very much aggrieved. His childish features filled with such adult sorrow.

"Well, maybe not," amended Andromeda. "Your face may change a little as you get older."  
"But nanny, that's not what I mean. I mean because I'm a met – meta – metamor – because of what I am! I won't always look like them because of what I am, and I want to, nanny. I want to look like them but I wont!" He seemed angered by himself.

With an uncomfortable jolt in her stomach, she realized as to what he was getting at.

"Teddy. Do you think that because you won't always look like your mummy and daddy it makes you less their son?" She kept her voice steady while her insides churned with turmoil.

To her dismay, he slowly and regretfully, nodded his head. Audible but smothered sniffs punctuating the silence that had descended.

"Oh honey! No!" She gathered him into her arms, rocking him soothingly and gently shushing his small sobs. Eventually he quietened.

"Honey, it's because of your mummy that you _are_ a metamorphmagus, and in that way you are so much more like her than you could ever be in appearance. You and her share a rare gift, never forget that. What you can do is because of her, and it makes you _more_ your parents son, not less."

This new logic appeared an epiphany for Teddy, who had recently come to regard his gift as something that distanced him away from his parents instead of bound him to them. This thought brought great comfort as he had been so afraid of losing any small part of of himself that connected him to his deceased mother and father.

Andromeda felt cold and empty, how could he think such a thing? She had tried so hard to keep his parents memory alive for him, had her efforts been flawed and neglectful of certain vital aspects? Teddy knew the origins of his ability, so why had he regarded it in such a fashion? She was most aggrieved to learn of what had to be her own fundamental mistake, and unreasoned doubts began to cloud her mind; what else had she done wrong that she was not aware of?

Appeased from his troubled thoughts, Teddy allowed her to continue readying him for their departure. But as the hour of their leave dawned, he got cold feet.

"Why do we have to go to a party?" He complained dragging his feet and causing Andromeda to halt since he held dearly to her hand.

"Do you not want to go?"

He shook his head, his bottom lip unconsciously jutting out in a way that made his face for a moment a perfect replica of his mothers when she was a child and was being forced against her will to do something.

"But it's your cousins birthday, and she's so looking forward to seeing you. Don't you think she might be a little disappointed if you didn't come to her party?" Andromeda persuaded. Teddy and Victorie had not seen each other for many a month, but they had last parted in firm friendship and Andromeda remained certain that each retained, in the deep chasms of their minds, a vague remembrance of the other.

Teddy just shrugged, feigning nonchalance and staring at his feet. Seeing as this approach was not working, Andromeda employed another.

"Why don't you want to go, sweetheart?"

He seemed to struggle for a minute over his answer, his face baring a deeply perplexed expression, as if he grappled at the strings of something that was just far too difficult to understand.

"I – I don't feel like being happy." It was the best explanation he could provide.

Andromeda felt a surge of pity. She knew it would only get harder as he got older and became more adept at understanding, but she had rationalized to herself that this wouldn't be for another two years yet, at the least. Regarding the painful sadness in his face, she realized that it had took on a deeper meaning, it now verged on grief, as near as any child's sorrow could. She knew it would do no good to let him sit and mourn, or whatever equivalent his mind had mustered to plague him, just as it did her no good. That was not what today should be about. There were 363 other days that could be filled with painful sadness and loss, but today, if ever there was one, was a day for celebration. Celebration for what had once been. She knew he would be okay once he was distracted, such was the reprieve childhood provided, but distraction remained exactly what he was opposed too.

She lowered herself to his height so that their eyes could meet on level, and spoke;

"How about this then? We'll go for a little while --" Teddy showed every sign of interrupting in protests, but she hurried on before he could do so. "We'll go for a little while and if, afterwards, you still want to come back home, then we'll make our excuses and leave?"

He considered this option for a minute, before, reluctantly, he agreed, deeming it the best he was going to get offered.

Hand in hand, the two apperated – Teddy via side along – just outside of the hill range that bordered Ottery St. Catchpole.

The grass was a rich green colour and dotted here and there with vast collections of wild flowers, blooming gloriously in the Springtime. Teddy stooped to pick a sky blue petaled one, and place it into Andromeda's hand.

Despite the warmth and brightness of the day, the sky was filled with bulky, deep Grey clouds that always threatened a potential rain.

A few minutes walk brought The Burrow into sight; its several floored and crooked exterior looking just a welcoming as ever. Some new additions had been lavished upon the vast garden to accommodate the party. The most obvious of which being a grand marque just round the side of the house and a large banner which adorned the outer stone wall, its lettering flashing a multitude of colours against the silver canvas and proclaiming the words; 'Happy Birthday Victorie.'

People moved within the house and grounds, but their distinguishable features remained a blur from the distance of Teddy and Andromeda's approach. Shouts, laughter and loud talking carried on the breeze, could be hear emanating from the dwelling, as well as the alluring aroma of freshly baked dough and pastries, wafting temptingly over the hills.

Despite his sombre mood, Teddy's dark expression could not help but be brightened somewhat at the sight of the oh-so-familiar house decorated in such lavish fashion.

Andromeda halted at the gate, a cluster of four golden balloons tied to the post, bobbing slightly in the breeze. She thought it rude to enter un-summoned and unannounced.

Her indecisiveness didn't last long however, as Molly Weasley, who had spotted them through the back kitchen window, rushed out to greet them.

"Andromeda. Teddy. So glad you could make it!" she beamed, opening the gate and ushering them inside. Teddy obediently handed the woman who he almost thought of as a second grandmother the small package he had been so protectively guarding. It contained a pretty little necklace monogrammed with Victorie's initials. Andromeda had allowed Teddy to pick it out himself.

"Oh, thank you dear. But do you not want to find Victorie and give it to her yourself?"

Teddy thought for a moment before shaking his head.

"Are you sure?" pressed Molly. Doubt began to creep into Teddy's features, and slowly, he reached out to retrieve his present; tucking it into the pocket of his jeans.

Teddy gave a small, embarrassed smile. Molly beckoned him forward in the pretense of sharing with him a great secret. He complied and gently she lifted him so that she could whisper in his ear;  
"Hermione and Ginny are in the kitchen, and I'm sure if you go and ask very nicely, they'll give you some treats." She made a show of discreetly scanning the area for eavesdroppers. "But don't tell anyone I told you," she added in a mockingly serious tone.

The pinnacle of Teddy's sorrow abated immediately at the mention of something sweet and sugary. Even his face seemed to visibly brighten before their eyes, vitality flooded back into his previously colourless cheeks, and his dull, short, brown and lank hair suddenly glowed with radiance and sat voluminously against his shoulders.

Molly set him upon his feet and bade him be quick ere anyone gets there before him. He glanced at Andromeda, torn. She offered him a reassuring smile that obliterated his indecision, and without words instructed him to follow his desire.

The two woman watched him into the house, and heard the two girls shouts of joy within at his arrival, to relieve them for a moment from their obligation to their mammoth task.

Molly, taking Andromeda's arm, lead her to a nearby bench seat – one of many that adorned the grass at intervals – It was crafted from a rich mahogany brown wood, and a great blue and white striped parasol cast a revolving shadow over the seating, moving with the sun. As beautifully made as it was, it looked to be nothing more than a muggle invention.

"Arthur built them himself," explained Molly, with a tone of loving exasperation and indicating the many similar seating sets.

"Came home one day in a fit of excitement and announced he was going to try his hand at a peculiar muggle habit called 'D.I.Y' It think that's the expression he used." Molly's brow furrowed a little as she concentrated on the specific detail.

"Ahh, yes." Andromeda gave a small smile, she recalled a time many summers ago when Ted had tried to explain that exact concept to _her_. Muggles using their bare hands to build things! It was ludicrous. Needless to say that she had never grasped the finer points of it.

This memory did not cause her great pain to recall, only a slight sorrow, but then, even that was outweighed by the tenderness of the moment.

"Of course there are repelling and enlargement charms on each and every one of them, and I feel if it should rain we could all stand where we where and not fear a single drop falling on us. I felt it rather defeated the point, but Arthur didn't agree." she laughed, lightly and humorously.

As it passed them by, Molly extracted two Butterburs from a silver platter serving tray, that levitated its course around the tables and their occupants. She handed one to Andromeda, and for a moment, the two woman drank in silence.

"How are you holding up?" Molly asked finally, in a tone befitting of one about to undertake a troubling and wearying conversation.

"I'm okay," sighed Andromeda, feeling the truth of her words, "Just trying to keep busy and not think about it too much, I suppose." She hesitated a split second before continuing in an unsure tone, "I feel if anything I should celebrate, not wallow in misery. Is that wrong of me?"

"No." Molly was thoughtful, "no, I don't think it is. Perhaps we _should _celebrate life instead of mourning death. I expect had they seen us these past few years, they would have laughed at our foolishness when we mourned them for being in such exquisite peace. At least, that is what I would like to believe." She offered a weak smile.

"I expect they would have. It's a nice thing to believe. Comforting," agreed Andromeda.

"I think they _must_ be at peace," Molly continued, eager to reap some small comfort from speaking her thoughts aloud, "or whatever consolation comes after death. For surely, if the were not, they would have come back?" It was clearly a question that remained unanswered in her own mind, and Andromeda could offer no resolution either.  
"I remember in some of my darkest days, Harry telling me that in peace, they would have 'gone on.' He told me everyone has a choice, either to go on, or remain; existing as a spirit, an imprint, when one could not find it in their hearts to forgive or repent. I think all of them could find that. I don't know how he knows really. For I didn't ask. Neither do I know how accurate his information is, but somehow, I don't doubt him."

"Me either."

Both woman reached up inconspicuously to wipe a glistening tear from the corner of their eyes, and caught each other in the act. They shared a small laugh.  
"Looks like we are off again Molly," said Andromeda, shaking her head ruefully, while Molly gave a watery smile.  
"We _are_ terrible," Molly added.

They took a moment to compose themselves.

"Teddy's not taking it too well?" observed Molly.

"You noticed," said Andromeda dryly. "No, he isn't. I don't know, really how much he understands, but the depth at which he feels things things frightens me. He's confused, understandably, so many things are hitting him at once and it's so much more than he can bear. He can't tell me what's wrong because half of the time he doesn't rightly know himself. He needs them, everyday I see that need burned so deeply into his soul, and everyday I know that he has to face another without them. He's so scared of losing anything that relates him to them, this morning he practically blamed his metamorphing ability for making him less their son." At this recollection her voice cracked, leaving behind a barely audible whisper that was strangled by an obstruction in her throat. "I've tried so hard Molly, but yet I feel like I have come up short. What have I been doing wrong?" A few tears rolled freely down her cheeks, too quickly for her to stem them.

Molly laid a consoling hand upon upon her shoulder, offering her a tissue from the box she had just conjured, which Andromeda accepted gratefully.

"You haven't done anything wrong," she stated firmly.  
"He's confused, like you said, and rightly so. I can promise you that there was nothing more you could have done to stop that. Were _we_ not confused when it first happened? He is only just beginning to realize what he was too young to understand. You've been a brilliant guardian to him, no-one could have asked for more from you, and you should start believing that. This is just something he has to go through, as did we all, and with you by his side to reassure him that everything is okay, I harbor no doubt that he will come through it smiling."

Tears of gratitude tinged her sorrow, falling freely and leaving prominent wet tracks down her cheeks in their wake. It was a while before their flow was stemmed, and longer still until they dried up completely.

"Better?" Molly asked sympathetically, when they came to an end.

"Much. Thank you, Molly. Although I feel I should apologize on my behalf." A little embarrassment had set in now, caused on part by her inability to keep her tears at bay when she promised herself she would, but mostly stemming from the fact that she had behaved in an improper manor.

"Nonesence. Indeed it seems quite a tradition to shed many a tear on the anniversary. I'd indulge myself with you, but I'm afraid that I have already fulfilled today's quota this morning alone." She offered a sad smile that laid bare some of her still existing anguish.

"Things are not going well?" Guessed Andromeda.

"Oh, no. Actually things go well enough," corrected Molly slowly. "Just this morning, things seemed to get a little too much to bear. Arthur saw me through it, of course. We are lucky in that respect, someone is always there to share the pain or offer comfort to those who need it. We've all been a little distracted today, and George has been rather quieter than usual, but then, that's to be expected really."  
Andromeda nodded in agreement.

"Is George here now," she asked, quickly scanning her surroundings to ascertain his absence.

"No, not yet. Well, he was," amended Molly, "he was here this morning to help us set up and to spend a little time with the family. But he left not long ago to pick up Angelina."

"Angelina?" Andromeda was well aware of the strong friendship that had struck up between George and Fred's former love interest in the wake of his death. "Are they still in contact?"

A wide grin spread across Molly's rounded face, lighting it with youth and life, causing it's former worry plagued appearance to seem nothing more than that of a figment of imagination.

"Well I should hope so," she chuckled lightly, "they're engaged."

Andromeda could feel the shock register and freeze upon her face, as her mind churned with a thousand questions, each sparking off ten new ones.

"And expecting," continued Molly somewhat joyously.

"We received _that_ news last week."

Andromeda was stunned, quite literally. A small portion of her mind told her that this was an unreasonable and rather hypocritical reaction, especially taking into account her own heritage.

"But how? ... When?" Her brow furrowed in deeply rooted confusion. "I thought they were just friends?"

"So did we all," Molly commenced her tale positively beaming.

"Each on of us concluded that it was their grief for Fred that bound them. We've all at one time or another thought that their relationship was more than one of friendship, but we soon dismissed these conclusions as there were no grounds for them. As our grief became easier to bare and life lumbered on however, their friendship grew stronger and blossomed, and all of a sudden, our previous conclusions seemed more reasoned than ever. I saw the way he looked at her, change before my very eyes. From then on, we all knew it was only a matter of time. They announced their love for each other a few months back, and not long after their engagement ensured." She paused for a moment, smiling to recall the memory. "Fred remains a prominent part in both their lives, almost like a foundation of their relationship. George has already told me that if they have a boy, he wants to name it Fred, and Angelina agrees." Her expression was alive with delight.

"And you're okay with this?" Andromeda asked, slightly bemused by the suddenness of the situation, and wishing to ascertain Molly's true feelings for this.

"Yes. Yes I am," Molly replied certainly. "I was a little taken aback at first, and though I'm ashamed to admit it; but I will to you, betrayed on Fred's part. I was outraged to learn that a relationship had been formed on the loss of their brother and friend. They assured me that this was not so, and begged for my blessing. I wasn't so stung as to refuse. Soon however, I became aware of my mistake, it was not betrayal on Fred's part that lead them to seek comfort and love from one another, but a preservation of his life and memory. Like I said, Fred is just as much a part of their relationship as each other. I don't rightly understand how it works, but it does. I have reassured myself with the thought that he always would have wanted them _both_ to be happy, and if that is with each other then, well, I think he would approve. And with that thought, how can _I_ not?" Molly gave an easy laugh.

"You have a wonderful way of looking at things, Molly" smiled Andromeda with gained insight.

"Mother!" called an articulate and well spoken voice that managed to inject so much arrogance into very few words.

Andromeda knew its speaker before she even looked up to behold the image of Percy Weasley standing on the doorstep, a green eyed, strawberry blond haired toddler balanced on one hip, and his free hand on the other in a stance of aloofness. She found the man irritable at times, but on the whole, laughable.

"The pumpkin pasties are ready, and Ginny's complaining about being stuck inside. She used a few choice words to describe the situation; which I don't care to repeat." He said this in an almost smug fashion.

There was a shout from within the kitchen and the next moment Percy was hit with a jet of yellow light. It struck him on the underside of his free arm, which immediately turned a vibrant red and small, round elevations appeared under his skin. A Stinging Hex.

Grimacing in pain, and for the moment, quite forgetting the counter curse, he turned back towards the kitchen; shouting about how dangerous it was to curse him while he had Molly in his arms. To which Ginny replied that some things just couldn't wait long enough for him to put her down, and that she loved Molly very much which was why the infant was never in any danger because she had aimed the spell so perfectly. She finished by muttering that he should be grateful that it was only a Stinging Hex she hit him with, instead of the Bat Bogey Hex he deserved.

"Well, I think that's my cue to go," said Molly exasperatedly, as the argument between her son and daughter heated up.

"Let me help with the cooking at least."Andromeda pleaded of the plump faced witch, she felt quite rude coming and not aiding Molly in any way. Especially when it was clear that she did in fact require help.

"No. No. I'll not hear of it!" replied Molly adamantly. "You're the guest."

Without waiting for Andromeda's protests, she rushed off towards the house. Her presence quelling her children's argument as effectively as if they had both been doused with ice cold water.

Hermione and Ginny were freed of their obligations as kitchen hands. They emerged together, in stunning summer dress robes, each baring a goblet of Firewhisky in hand, to take up seats beside Andromeda. Ginny muttering darkly about her 'prat of a brother' and Hermione offering condolences.

Before long, Teddy returned, his arms laden with an assortment of sweet treats, for which he enthusiastically thanked Ginny and Hermione for, both of whom maintained that it was no trouble. Andromeda also offered her thanks to their kindness, but they remained adamant that it deserved none.

The three woman lapsed into easy conversation, Teddy clambering up onto his grandmothers knee, wishing to be included also.

Mouthwatering aroma's emanated from the house, delightfully different and equally as alluring each time one smelt them. The interchanging sunshine reigned over the oppression of the clouds for the time being, pleasantly warming the air and causing shadows to form on the ground.

It was a faintly accented, girlish shout of;

"Teddy!" that averted the three women's attention away from their conversation. All of which and the boy in question looked around to regard the two figures standing hand in hand upon the green lawn.

Victorie looked neither abashed nor embarrassed when all eyes turned to her, indeed she looked glowing, in the literal sense. A pale glow seemed to exude from the whiteness of her and her accompanier's skin, a shade that could never be put down to pallor, but rather to beauty.

Andromeda marveled at how much the little girls appearance had changed in the few months since last seeing her. Victorie's hair, looking as soft and delicate and the same colour as spun gold, now cascaded long and straight down her back. Her fine elfin face and perfect features made her look vaguely doll like, and gave the impression of her being just as delicate and breakable. Her ocean blue and enchanting eyes were exact replica's of that of her mothers and sisters.

Andromeda felt Teddy gasp in awe at how different his friend was, and if she were not mistaken, which she very much doubted she was, caught the small glimmer of a blush as it coloured Teddy's cheeks.

Even little Dominique, who could be no older than a year, was starting to portray signs of her part Veela, mothers heritage. Her hair was more silvery in respect to Victorie's shade of gold, and her features still remained at a stage where they had not much altered, but the potential was there.

Teddy practically leaped off his grandmothers knee in his eagerness to greet Victorie. But as soon as his feet hit the green earth, he hesitated and became still; as if unsure of his next move.

Ignoring his uneasiness, Victorie bounded forwards to greet him. Dominique's hand still firmly clasped in her own.

She bestowed upon Teddy, two kisses, one on either cheek; thus was the custom she had been brought up with, and then engulfed him in a one armed hug.

Teddy, unused to such an enthusiastic greeting, blushed brilliantly red. This extended to his hair, leaving the beforehand brown locks the colour of a howler.

Andromeda smiled broadly, a sense of relief flooding though her for more than one purpose. The main however, being, that this was the first time Teddy had morphed either intentionally or involuntary in the last week.

Victoire laughed openly at his trick and proceeded to repeat her action, ensuring unknowingly that Teddy's hair would not change back for a long while. Teddy too, laughed lightly when he saw this amused Victorie.

With a broad grin on her face, she turned her gazed momentarily away from Teddy to her little sister. With such heartwarming tenderness she spoke;  
"Dommie, go to 'Mione," and she released the toddlers hand.

Hermione, crouched down a meter or two from where the three children stood, and with her arms outstretched, called the infants name.

With a squeal of delight, Dominique stumbled forward with unsteady steps in to the awaiting arms of her aunt, a smile of dynamic proportions a prominent feature on her face.

Hermione cradled Dominique lovingly in her arms, as the little girl settled, twisting her fingers round one of the brown curls that hung down Hermione's back.

As soon as she saw her sister safe, Victorie reached for Teddy's hand; kissing that also.

"Come on Teddy! Come and play with me! I've missed you so much! Come on!" she rushed out excitedly, tugging gently on his hand in indication that she wished him to follow her. He all too willingly complied to her wishes, as she led him towards the Marque, keeping up a constant stream of conversation that held him in awe.

Andromeda, Hermione and Ginny were left laughing freely at the spectacle that they had just bore witness too.

A short while later, George returned with Angelina; looking solemn and distracted. They chose to sit on their own at a great distance away from everyone else. All the while, George's hand never left Angelina's waist and her eyes seemed bound to eternally regard his. They maintained a stream of low conversation that appeared comforting to them both.

Andromeda watched them with mild interest and a neutral expression, vaguely aware that Hermione and Ginny were also participating in her spectatorship.

"Do you know, I think it is rather sweet," mused Hermione.

"Sure," Ginny rolled her eyes, "Maybe once you get past the weirdness of the situation."

"You don't like it then, I take?" Hermione ventured.

Ginny looked like she resented herself for saying so, and spoke as if the answer was of great burden to her;

"No."

Their exchange progressed no further, for at that moment, Harry and Ron returned from their errands, which had consumed the entire morning and the better part of the afternoon. The two best friends converged on their wives, brushing tender kisses upon their cheeks, before drawing up chairs and installing themselves around the now crowded table.

Conversation was established immediately and maintained long into the early hours of the evening. Topics ranged from trivial matters to the more serious engagement of future plans. During this time, Harry leaned over to talk privately to Andromeda, who was seated on his right.

"How are you?" he inquired.

"I'm okay ..." she launched into a condensed retelling of her day so far. Harry nodded with empathy at certain places and his brow furrowed with familiar sadness at others. A look of deepest concern, however, lay darkly on his face when Andromeda recited Teddy's unreasoned worries about his ability.

"Where is the little rascal?" He asked in an attempt to lighten the profound saddening mood that had befell them both in the last minutes.

"Victorie dragged him off," supplied Ginny, with an irrepressible smile, who had been listening, though not intrusively, to the conversation.

"Last we saw of them, they were heading toward the Marque."

Andromeda and Ginny shared a small laugh at remembrance of this scene.

"I'll go and find them in a minute and say my hello, and to everyone else as well. But first ..."

He extracted a glass of Firewhisky off the serving tray, which had returned to do its rounds after having been replenished.

"I think I deserve this," he raised his glass in silent toast to all those seated, and drank sparingly.; savoring the burning liquid as it slid down his throat in a fashion that was not at all uncomfortable. Ron followed suit, draining his glass in one.

"WON!" came a mispronounced, high pitched, enthusiastic, girlish shout emanating from somewhere below the table and out of sight.

"Molly!" Ron called back mimicking tone and enthusiasm.

He reached for the strawberry blond haired infant and set her upon his knee. She immediately used his jacket to hoist herself up into a standing position, from which she threw her small arms around Ron's neck, in a way that clearly showed she had missed her uncle.

"Whoa! Whoa! Hey!" Ron began in protests that fell of deaf ears.

"Don't be so mean," chided Ginny. "She's missed you, not that you deserve to be missed," she added in an undertone that everybody except Ron heard, who chose that second to suffer a momentary lapse of deafness. "Just give her a hug, it won't kill you."

Ron was forced to return the little girls gesture. His unease soon turned to smugness however, when Molly placidly returned to sitting on his knee, completely appeased and angelic looking. Ron was self congratulatory on his effort and the expertise in which the situation had been handled.

Hermione shook her head slowly, her eyes full of loving exasperation. Andromeda recalled a gesture of the same nature appearing in Molly's eyes when she spoke of Arthur's muggle escapades. Both gestures, though of the same nature, contained defined differences, attributes that were entirely their own and which separated and reserved them from anyone else

"Who's fathers a prat eh?" cooed Ron, tickling Molly so that she squirmed in his arms and gave forth to adorable giggles.

Hermione executed a perfectly aimed slap which caught her husband, unawares, square on the upper arm.

"Ron! You can't say things like that to her, and definitely not when she is at an age where she could so easily pick it up!" She scolded aghast.

Chuckling, Harry got up and bade his leave, determined to let his friends sort it out between themselves without him to play third party or mediator.

"Well it's true," Ron defended, "It's not like I'm feeding her lies."

"That's not the point," Hermione returned sternly.

"Well ... Fine. I'll take her back to Percy then. _Remove her from my bad influence_" The latter part of his sentence he spoke in a very Hermione-ish tone. He stood up with exaggerated intent, a further extension of his original idea seemed to strike him in the process. He reached for the sleeping Dominique, who was curled against Hermione's stomach, and cradled her in his free arm.

"I'll take Dominique back to Fleur as well, in case my bad influence is catching."

"Oh Ronald. You are impossible," sighed Hermione, slightly peeved.

All intent seemed to vanish from his face as her real annoyance at him was born. He regarded her downcast eyes that refused to meet his own, and her folded arms that she held tightly against her chest.

"But you love me for it," coaxed Ron. Portraying the true image of a dog with it's tale between its legs. Hermione looked like she would like to question that love. But as Ron swooped down upon her and delicately kissed her cheek in the precise way only a lover could; all her previous annoyance dissipated immediately. She sighed contentedly despite herself.

Not another word was exchanged as Ron started towards the house and Hermione watched his progress. There dispute well and truly quelled.

Andromeda had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. The two knew how to so easily disarm each other and used that knowledge to full advantage.

Harry returned a short time later with both children in hand. He held Victorie in his arms, while he appeared to have thrown Teddy over his shoulder. Teddy was laughing continuously and Victorie seemed to find her friends amusement fuel enough for her own laughter.

With a rush of happiness, Andromeda noticed the sun glinting off a small locket hanging round Victorie's neck; easily identifiable against the white of her dress. Teddy had a at some point found the confidence to give it to her. Indeed now he appeared very vivacious and talkative towards her, his former shyness rendered obsolete.

Harry swung them both round in a dizzying circle before setting them on the ground. For a moment they clung to each other, waiting for the world to right itself again, before grinning broadly with enjoyment.

"Come and play," Teddy begged of him, tugging gently at Harry's fingers.

"Yes, do," seconded Victorie, observing her friends action and copying it.

Harry chuckled, in one movement disengaging himself from their grasp and reaching out to tickle their sides until they were a sufficient distance out of reach.

"I'm a little tired right now," he told them both, and it was no lie, the auror office had him working hard as he entered the last phase of his training. "I'll play later if you still want me too."

Teddy looked downhearted and Victoire gave a small pout, that made the similarities between her and her mother all the more striking.

"I promise," Harry reiterated.

Teddy considered the truth in this statement for a moment. Finding it in his favor, he consented.

Harry returned to his previous seat at the table, the lowered position of the sun now casting him in the shade of the great umbrella above. Subsequent to this, Ron returned alone a few minutes after.

He threw himself back into the chair besides Hermione and announced;

"I couldn't find Percy anywhere, more's the pity."

There was a moment of silence in which everyone around the table exchanged a look.

"Then ... Where have you left Molly?" Hermione asked tentatively.

"With Fleur," Ron laughed buoyantly. "Come on Hermione, I'm not _that_ careless as to just leave her on her own. Give me some Credit. Now that _would_ be bad and influential of me," he added feigning seriousness. He took another glass of Firewhisky and sipped it merrily. Hermione seemed to be fighting back a smile and Harry openly laughed.

Teddy and Victorie did not stick around for long. Soon a game of Owl Post was proposed, a wizarding variant of the muggle game tag, but more rewarding. Each 'owl' was given a package to guard, on the most part consisting of sweets, the objective of the game being to stop the 'owl' – or in the case of multiple players, 'owls' – from making their delivery. If the objective was achieved then the winning team received the parcel as a congratulatory prize.

As the conversation at the table lapsed, many of those seated turned their attentions towards the children, watching their game unfold.

Teddy was the faster of the two and thus presented a more difficult target of capture. But every now and again it appeared that he would slow and allow Victoire to gain a little ground on him; even once or twice willfully consenting himself to be caught. Win or lose, it didn't really matter, as each time the prize was always split equally.

It was in one of these moments when the two halted their play to savor their winnings that a beautiful, yet thickly accented voice spoke directly behind Andromeda, startling her.

"'Zey do look so adorable togethzer, don't 'zey." It was not a question but a statement.

Andromeda wheeled round to behold Fleur, who must have crept like a ghost to be so close to her without Andromeda hearing. Her long silvery blond hair danced about her perfectly shaped frame, stirring in the slight breeze.

The elusive Percy has evidently been found, for Fleur held only Dominique in her arms. Both pairs of stunningly alike eyes regarding Andromeda.

"Uhm, yes I guess so," Andromeda replied a little uncertainly. Indeed she regarded the image of the two children sitting cross legged upon the grass, laughing merrily and gorging themselves upon the mighty mountain of sweets that lay before them, as a touching one. But she caught a deeper meaning in Fleur's tone which left her unawares.

"'E makes 'er so 'appy," Fleur continued, unperturbed by Andromeda's less than avid response.

"Yes, they have quite a friendship." Andromeda tried again.

Fleur just looked at her with a sympathetic expression, the sort one would regard a pitiful figure with who continually misinterpreted the punchline of a great joke.

From the corner of his eye, Teddy witnessed a figure exit the house and halt upon the doorstep, surveying the surrounding scene. He remained stationary longer than a casual observer had right too, and that is what compelled Teddy to look up.

He was shocked to regard Bill Weasley's scarred face, and as usual, a chill ran down his spine as he beheld those accursed remnants from a dangerous time not so long ago. Knowing this man and his past did not curb Teddy's aversion to him. There was just something menacing about the mans face that suggested to Teddy he was dangerous.

Victoire caught Teddy's averted attention and followed it.

"Daddy!" she called excitedly, without hesitation bounding to cover the short distance that separated them, and leaping into his awaiting arms.

He kissed her smooth white cheek, and she kissed his rough one in return, before he spun her around; laughing a rich laughter. His long hair becoming entangled with hers for a moment.

Teddy looked on, captivated by the scene of unity between the two opposites.

Setting his daughter down, her hand still clasped in his; Bill motioned Teddy forwards. Teddy made no indication of movement, unsure of how he should proceed or even if he wished too.

Bill, seeing his hesitation, offered the boy a warm smile, which in Teddy's opinion only aided in making his already wild face appear fiercer and even more inhumane. Bill's smile faded a little when he seemingly realized the cause of Teddy's hesitancy, he did however, not look hurt; but puzzled.

"Come on Teddy!" Called Victorie, confused as to why her friend did not follow. With doleful eyes she gazed up at her father, as if willing him to do what she could not. He gave her hand a small squeeze in a gesture of reassurance.

"It's okay," he called to Teddy.

It was that voice, so tender and gentle and stark in comparison to the ruined face that finally gained Teddy's trust.

Slowly and cautiously, he made his way over to where Bill and Victoire stood.

"'E is az gentle az anybody." Fleur told Andromeda in a tone of lamentation. "'Et is truly a shame what 'appened; but my 'usband is a brave man," she finished quite passionately.

Andromeda observed with held breath, as, after covering his daughters ears and placing a small kiss on her nose, Teddy allowed Bill to crouch near him and whisper something in his ear. Victorie waited patiently to be permitted to hear again.

At the whispers closure, Teddy regarded Bill with a puzzled expression; to which Bill, after releasing Victorie, gave a small nod.

"What's going on?" Andromeda questioned, as Teddy took hold of Victories had, quite confidently, and lead her to a nearby table laden with treats; where upon tiptoes, he reached for something that was impossible to distinguish from her distance.

Fleur gave a tinkling laugh;

"'Zer is one sure way to gain my daughter favor, and 'zat is through a chocolate cauldron. Do not worry 'zo, 'zey are filled only with 'Oneydukes finest toffee."

Extracting his desired treat, Teddy presented it too Victorie. Taking it, she gave a small squeal of joy, before pouncing at him and kissing him many times; effectively turning his finally restored brown hair its most vibrant shade of red yet.

Andromeda and Fleur's laugher was accompanied but that of many others' who surround the table and Bill's rich tones which carried on the breeze. Amidst that joyous sound Fleur's voice could just be made out saying;

"She 'as 'ad 'er eye on 'zem all afternoon, but was not tall enough to reach 'zem."

Evening drew in steadily, Dusk casting a purple light upon the garden basking everything in a radiant, unreal feel. The air grew slightly chill as night replaced the passage of day. To the west, a glorious sunset lighted the surrounding sky vibrant pinks, yellows and oranges, the fiery globe the central point of the display.

Everybody was ushered into the marquee, where a long and lavishly decorated table awaited, donned with white and gold cloths that covered it's length. At each place was sat a delicate china plate and a high backed, decorative chair who's frame depicted a fragile looking vine winding around the wood and a single rose set atop the highest point. Midway down the table at either end stood a cluster of four golden balloons, and as the central feature; a quadrupedal tiered cake, white iced with decorative sugar leaves baring the vibrant colours of autumn. Atop the highest tier, a little icing figure, which bore a perfect likeness to Victorie, danced exultantly in the frosting as if it were snow.

Inside of the marquee, the air was tinged with a homely and familiar feel; a small fire even crackled merrily in the granite fireplace, emanating warmth and a pleasant aroma.

Guests filed in and took their designated seats, chatter stirring among the enterage. From her position, Andromeda could hear Ron protesting his placement;

'She's my old Quidditch captain Hermione, it's weird now thats she's –' and as the word failed him, he gestured wildly to his stomach.

Andromeda didn't hear much of Hermione's reply, only the long, drawn out sigh of 'Oh, Ronald.'

She found herself and Teddy seated between Molly and Harry, close to the head of the table, which was evidently reserved for Arthur.

Victorie gave a squeal of delight from the vantage point of her fathers shoulders to behold her celebratory cake, and as Bill and Fleur took their seats opposite Molly and Andromeda, the little girl did not seem to harbor the will to look away from the icing structure. Seated in her fathers lap it appeared his lose grip of her was the only restraint that kept her bounded from rushing forward and investigating the theory of her cake tasting as good as it looked.

Teddy seemed equally entranced, it was not however, the cake that held his attention, but something undeniably sweeter.

The lighting inside the marquee was dimmed, exuding an atmosphere of sensuous unity that was tinged with deep remembrance. All those present could not help but feel that they were partaking in something greater, and undeniably more profound than the simple appearance their gathering portrayed. This thick mood of contemplation steered conversation to entail topics of a more serious nature than the party strictly demanded.

Whence everyone was seated, Arthur called for silence; standing at the head of the table, every eye turned to regard him.

Andromeda had at one time, naively considered him a diminutive figure, but now as he stood royally before those gathered, she could see that he captivated each of their respect and admiration without ever having to ask for it. Once again, she felt abashed for ever thinking of him so unfittingly.

He began in a lite tone;

"We gather today for two very different but both unifying reasons. The first and foremost of these is to celebrate the fourth birthday of Victorie. " He offered Bill and Fleur a warm smile, and gave Victorie a discreet wink, to which she giggled, and grinned broadly at taking prime position in her grandfathers speech. "She grows more beautiful and loving each and every time I see her, and has me in marvelous wonder each time I get one of those rare moments to myself. She truly is her mother and fathers daughter, and will one day make them proud, if she hasn't already done so. I would like to go on praising her all day, but I fear she wouldn't thank me for prolonging the agony she has to endure waiting for her cake."

There was scattered laughter around the table. Victorie's eagerness was all too apparent, and anyone who watched her could not halt the smile that passed onto their lips. Teddy giggled aloud whenever she did.

Abruptly, however, the mood changed, the frivolous atmosphere that had been adopted giving way to seriousness. When Mr. Weasley spoke again, his voice was a good octave below what it had been before, but still managed to carry down the table. The weight of his words however seemed to physically weaken him.

"The second reason we have gathered today, perhaps subconsciously, is to seek comfort from those like ourselves and console our grief, which still exists quietly in out hearts, for this day will always bare a heavy price and burden upon them. So much was lost and so much was gained in one night. None of us escaped unscathed, although some wounds more than others, are easier to see. We lost the closest to us that night, family, friends and I don't think anything on Earth can compensate that, but we alone can keep their memory alive. Fred, Nymphadora and Remus died heroes; they showed courage, honor and valor in the face of danger and fear, and will always be remembered for such in the hearts of those who knew them. They _are_ worthy of celebration and remembrance, unlike many others who died that night, and we should find encouragement from that thought. Five years have passed and life has continued on around us, but not a day passes where that are not part of it, and I doubt one ever will, for every moment we think of them, we allow them to live just that little bit longer."

Arthur retook his seat and applause met the conclusion of his speech. Andromeda found herself blinded by tears and hurriedly wiped them away as not to miss a moment, she was not surprised to see many an eye glisten with tears around her also.

Cautiously, Harry rose from his seat. He neither called for silence nor gave any indication that they should listen to him. He applauded along with everyone else in appreciation for Mr. Weasley's words. Soon, however, everyone fell silent and almost motionless, their eyes holding him and him alone. Even the children, who were too young to understand the influence he carried, felt the change in atmosphere and became just as silent as their parents.

"I want neither gratitude, nor thanks for what I did, as it doesn't warrant any," Harry began, much to the surprise of those gathered who evidently disagreed. "If you are looking for someone who deserved admiration, then look towards yourselves, as you better deserve it than I. Lord Voldermort is gone forever, taken by that which he feared most, death. There remains no living trace of him upon this earth and thus, he can never again return. I know this for certain, and now I inform you. The aurora's office have been working tirelessly – as I am sure Arthur is aware- to subdue all know Death Eaters while Ron and I have been in training, now most of them haunt the cells of Azkaban. I reassure you all adamantly again, that you have nothing to fear in the foreseeable future."  
He paused briefly to regard them all with a warm smile. When he spoke there was a tenderness in his voice that had not before been present.

"Perhaps the most striking thing I have learned in my lifetime, is the value of friendship and family; without the support of which, I could never have done what I did. It is not one man that wins a war. It was through love, compassion, friendship, trust and honor that we managed to win out battle, all that which Voldermort knows not of. I was told this very thing a few years back, but I never believed it ... Or rather, I never understood it enough to see the truth in those words. How could simple human emotions overcome someone so evil? I only ever saw them as not being what I had expected them to be, and this blinded me. But with age came wisdom and I finally understood what before I had been too ignorant to see. To love is to conquer all battles."

His eyes regarded everyone round the table and none could find the will to disbelieve his words, not that they ever wanted too. Lastly he fixed Andromeda with a smile that bought about a brilliant epiphany that all along _she_ had been blind too.

Andromeda looked around at the people who had ushered her into their lives and welcomed her with awaiting, opened arms. So consumed and overwhelmed by their kindness she had been that until this moment she had neglected to comprehend their motives. Somewhere, during the last five years, despite being notwithstanding blood relatives, her and Teddy had become part of the family.

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_**Thank you very vey much if you read this far :)**_

_**Your efforts deserve to be rewarded.**_

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Andromeda

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Andromeda

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Andromeda


	4. Regulus

_Bet you all thought I had forgotten about this one, huh? Nope :)_

_This chapter was actually really fun to write, completely different writing from the mindset of someone who orginally supports Voldermort as oppose to fears him._

_I don't really know *how* exactly Regulus found out about the locket being a Horcrux (and didn't that get me thinking) so his revelation may seem a little sketchy._

_Otherwise, I hope you enjoy :)_

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**Regulus **

_For the sake of humanity.  
__That one moral virtue embodied in a friend,  
__whose light can be repressed but not diminished._

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_Toujours Pur; _Always Pure. It was more than a motto, it was an ideology, an aspiration, and a families pride.

The Noble And Most Ancient House Of Black: habitation of a prestigious legacy of pure-bloods, home of their forefathers, and now an enduring remnant of their lineage. The concealed abode a very literal constitution of pride, power and supremacy; corrupted.

The family, Black – in name and nature – one of the last and greatest wizarding families of the age; a dying breed. Their heritage unsmirched and unsullied, uncontaminated by such lesser blood as was all too prevalent in other families. They were royalty, the pinnacle of concentrated magic infused into every generation; its origin traceable even back to the very first union. The epitome of tradition and haughty disposition; as renowned for disowning their nonconformist members, as for the very notoriety this action awarded them. Purity was honor, obsession, necessity and life.

Regulus had been raised accordingly, to imbue and practice these values, as had Sirius, but while his elder brother rebelled and contested, he had not defected.

In his youth, he had craved the solidarity and affection such conformity awarded him, while Sirius, openly rejecting even then, was lavished with only depreciation and repugnance. He had relished being the disclosed favorite of his parents, and had sought with ever heightening fervency to absorb and demonstrate their dictations.

Animosity had quickly festered between the two brothers, inadvertently encouraged by their parents. Their divide was only further fortified as a result of their respective sortings, and they constituted one of only a select few siblings who carried the Gryffindor, Slytherin rivalry well beyond the walls of Hogwarts, and the only to do it with such gusto.

For many years, the superficial need for adoration was the sole driving agent of his parroted morals. But upon joining his peers, in the house of noble Slytherin, and discovering for himself the sway and coveted status of blood purity beyond the realms of his own family, the teachings developed a new poignancy.

Suddenly, they were no longer devices ployed for reward, but polished sentiments to be cherished, august notions to be preserved and a living legacy to which one was indebted, and valued above all else. He had been eleven when revelation came.

Now, with the prospects of his fourth year at Hogwarts laying little more than a month away, he was set to learn, with especial significance, the true cost of open defiance, disobedience and disloyalty.

Seated upon the sill of his bedroom window, which overlooked the entrance-way, he stared coldly out at the dark and starless sky. A wan moon cast its weak and sickly light away to the east, while below, swirling eddies and tendrils of impenetrable fog enveloped and obliterated the square.

A newspaper lay open across his legs, which, braced against the wall opposite, extended the length of the sill. Numerous leafs and cuttings were spread with haphazard organization across the floor. Images, headlines, warnings and procedural guidelines glared up from their prone positions; blinking like the inescapable eyes of a nation in the half light. A path of uncertainty; paving stones to a maelstrom sea.

Occupying the pages of the all but discarded issue which lay across his lap was the headline: _Family's Tragedy: Perkins Killed By Suspected Inferi Attack_. And below it was the image of a family: father, mother and two daughters, happily waving up from the depiction of a life that had been cruelly taken from them.

They were laughing. The fine wrinkles surrounding the woman's eyes and mouth deepening perceptibly. Even in the absence of observation, the mans arm was slipped around her waist and drawing her closer. Their children spoke animatedly, with wild gesticulation; no shadow of fear upon their faces, no heavy cynicism in their expressions.

The image and headline belied each other, noisome in paradox, a sickening irony. But yet Regulus had perused it ineffectually almost in accustom. .

Both parents had been muggle born, and their children considered hardly better than so. Their blood status had effectively signed their own death warrant, and that was the truth of it.

Regulus blinked slowly, turning his head fractionally to the side he measured the nature of the silence which had abruptly descended upon the tumultuous household. It was furtive, loud and filled with pent up tension; the calm before a storm.

In the light of the low burning candelabra, an image of himself was reflected back off the opaque panes like a mirror. In that visage he appeared pallid, suspicious and scared; a warped depiction of his true self, an unwholesome deceit.

The reprieve, however, was short lived, before the air was rent once again with accusations. Two voices battled for prevalence in a vocal war; a third intermittently imploring reason. The discord which had initiated at dinner as of yet conveyed no signs of diminishing.

" … TRAITOR TO YOUR OWN FAMILY!" Walburga's voice rose and fell in undulations, wailing sentiments of betrayal, or else whispering threats in a dangerous undertone.

"WHAT FAMILY?" Sirius' retort was scoffing.

" … STAIN OF DISHONOR BESMIRCHING THE ANCIENT AND MOST NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK! … " Walburga plowed on heedless of her sons engagement in the debate "... ASSOCIATING WITH MUDBLOODS, HALF-BLOODS AND BLOOD-TRAITORS ALIKE … YOUR ACTIONS BRING SHAME UPON US ALL!"

"WHY? BECAUSE I DON'T SUBSCRIBE TO YOUR PUREBLOOD MANIA? BECAUSE I CAN THINK FOR MYSELF? I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT YOUR SHAME, JUST LIKE I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT YOUR PREACHINGS. PURITY MEANS _NOTHING_ TO ME!"

Though his tone bristled with hatred, and each word was spat around repulsion, Sirius; bold, outspoken and enraged, relished every moment of their confrontation, reveled in every opportunity to denounce his parents values.

Regulus was more than accustomed to such dire states of family disharmony, as they formed an integral part of his home-life. It seemed that growing up, his brother has always been raging a war against someone or something, his combative personality like the ignition spark to a crate of Dr. Fillibusters; always waiting to erupt.

But even so, there was some imperceptible inclination upon this occasion which made him sit up and listen, when otherwise he would have drowned out the sound. Sirius, while always empassioned in the heat of an argument, sounded oddly elated, and Walburga, easily combustible, berated with a new depth of ardency and scorn. Something was awry.

Sirius thought that their mother did not have a heart to break, and kept herself alive on pure spite. Regulus knew better. He was that hearts very keeper. The loyal son, the obedient, the cherished.

In all his years he had never even considered that the evident favoritism that their parents honored and lavished him with, had molded the heart of Sirius' rebellion. Whether their choices were parallel reflections; with he, responding to tenderness and affection electing compliance, and Sirius, responding to coldness and disregard electing rejection, they were but different pages of the same lifetime.

Never even considered how unrelenting comparisons, critique and depreciation felt to the lonely little boy who would one day forsake his family entirely, nor how scorn and disdain soon became like oxygen to him; a form of commendation in the absence of praise. Never entertained the notion of how two brothers, so vastly opposed could be the products of a single shared upbringing.

Such matters just didn't exist to his world. Things were as they were, regardless of how they began. Who questioned favorable fortune? Who was eager to cast doubt upon their own standing? Who ached to admit that their esteem was wrongly granted? Deep down, nobody wanted to reduce and sacrifice their own favor in order to raise that of anothers.

Besides, Sirius had made his allegiances inescapably clear, in addition to his morals, values and conviction; all of which he had imposed upon their household with unperturbed bravado. His brother: always straddling trouble and disaster, always seeking confrontation, always hungering for mischief and disruption. Sirius, wayward and destructive until the end.

Once, they must have been close, but Regulus could barely remember. Now, the closest thing they had to affection was their rivalry upon the Quidditch pitch: for hate was at least as prevalent and heated an emotion as love.

Orion was attempting to instil reason into the madness, but neither party could be quelled – they were like the storm and the sea when contesting which was mightier.

Regulus sat up a little straighter and angled his head towards the door of his chamber, which stood slightly ajar, endeavoring to catch their complete charges. Absently, he folded the paper in two.

"YOU ALWAYS WERE A DISAPPOINTMENT OF A SON!"

Sirius laughed; a brash, bark-like sound. And Regulus, even in the solitude of his room, envisioned him throwing back his head, shaggy bangs falling into his eyes as he shook with over-animated mirth, all of which was in effort to infuse just that little bit more insolence into the gesture. "AS IF I EVER WANTED TO PLEASE _YOU_!"

"REGULUS IS A BETTER SON THAN YOU EVER COULD BE!" Walburga screeched with relish.

It was at this point that Regulus truly understood the gravity of the events which played out underneath their roof. It was a derogatory imposed upon Sirius numerous times throughout the course of fourteen years. The king upon a board of pawns, but its utterance marked the point of no return. Once the words were spoken there was no dispelling them, the feud had to run on into its own bitter destruction. Impervious to almost all criticism of his parents, that one statement still had the power to rile Sirius like no other.

"REGULUS IS A MORON!" was the explosive return, "TOO BLIND TO SEE PAST YOUR PREJUDICES, TOO SELF-IMPORTANT TO REALIZE THAT BEING PURE-BLOOD MEANS NOTHING. HE'LL MEET HIS DEATH AS THE FOOL HE IS NOW, STILL LAPPING UP YOUR LIES!"

It was Regulus' turn to laugh in cruel mockery. Sirius; implosive, undervalued, rejected and on the brink of losing everything, thought he was the fool? Go figure. _His_ life would be one of augment, victory and revolution , while Sirius' would be as futile and worthless as the oppositional cause he had so infamously pledged his alliance to. And similarly as doomed from its offset.

Two brothers, children of prejudice and bias, bound to tread different paths, with each condemning the others election. What had become of the family which prized itself upon loyalty and solidarity? Where was that devotion now?

"YOU WOULD BETRAY YOUR OWN KIND BY DEFENDING THOSE UNWORTHY OF MAGIC? THOSE WHO STAIN, SULLY AND DILUTE OUR MAGICAL BLOOD?" Walburga's tone commanded a tenor of fervent hysteria, cantankerously endorsed.

"_BETRAY/_" Sirius was derisive, though there was something decidedly more sombre, regretful, even, in the way he uttered the word. "THEY _ARE_ OUR KIND! THE SAME MAGICAL BLOOD FLOWS WITHIN ALL OUR VEINS!"

Walburga emitted a chocked screech of unbounded outrage, and all but drowning out her sons words, crowed like a persistent mantra, the accusation; "BLASPHEMY! BLASPHEMY!"

Regulus grew motionless, trepidation cruelly purloining the air around him. This loaded defense was not one that had ere been observed in open confrontation, though it had suffered allusion, and its rude participation decimated any fleeting, infirm semblances remaining to normality.

Indiscriminate to the numerous irritations – which were like fodder to the combustive household – that marked the inception of passionate discord, every debate conformed to the same regimental phases. Or at least, had before. This digression was painfully unsettling, and set Regulus to wondering; what new spoke of rebellion was he ignorant to?

"YOUR PREJUDICES ARE CLOSER TO BLASPHEMY THAN MINE! I STAND WITH AND DEFEND, ANY WHO STAND AGAINST YOU-KNOW-WHO AND PURE-BLOOD SUPREMACY! I STAND PROUD ALONGSIDE MY EQUALS!" There was an intriguing note of regalement in his brothers tone that Regulus was surprised to distinguish.

"I WON'T TOLERATE SUCH TALK! THE DAY YOU THROW IN YOUR LOT WITH SUCH FILTH, THE DAY YOU OPPOSE THE NOBLE CAUSE OF THE DARK LORD, AND THE DAY YOU BETRAY YOUR FAMILY, IS THE DAY YOU DIE TO ME!" Walburga had screeched herself beyond the physical realms of hysteria, and her threat lingered preganantly in the air, engorged with fierce and violent conviction.

"YOU HAVE BEEN DEAD TO ME SINCE THE MOMENT I FIRST LAID EYES UPON YOU! I HAVE NO FAMILY!"

Instantly, Regulus knew that things had progressed too far. Their mothers patience was thin, her temper; eternally brewing beneath the surface, a source of white-hot violence, but there was one thing above all else that she prided herself on: family.

It imbued her only redeeming sentiments of benevolence and affection, and even their frugal deliverance had to be earned through compliance. Sirius had never owned such endearment, but to offer it direct challenge was congruent to goading a venomous tentacular, and then wondering foolishly why it attacked. It was sure to rile.

"GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

A deafening _bang! s_ounded, like the bellow of a gunshot, its reverberations wracking the house to its very foundations. Regulus envisioned raised wands and a gaping cavity fisted through the pantry wall.

"WITH PLEASURE!"

Thunderous footsteps started upon the stairs, arrogant and infuriating, every one of them, taking the ascent two at a time; advancing quickly. The persistent opponents were still embroiled in a verbal frenzy, determined like no other to own the last words, to deny and reject one another to the furthest realms of resentment.

Sirius' voice rose in crescendo as he gained the second floor landing and his chamber, their mothers all the while matching his for pitch and volume, never wavering despite their distance. Each within their own right was a force to be reckoned with, but entwined and pitted against one another, they were the very instigation of destruction. An unquenchable storm of fire, air, earth and water. Nature, incarnate.

Regulus stood irresolute; posture stiff and guarded, distrusting the situation. What was happening? In all the years of feuds, warring wills and undermining attempts, an order of expulsion from Grimmauld Place had never been issued, so why now? Sirius unwaveringly fought against every vice and value their family coveted in a tirade as long as his years, so why upon this occasion, par for the course, should the yielding result go awry? Evidently Regulus was ignorant to some fact or occurrence, which had so swayed and transpired normalcy. It seemed this time, that Sirius really had gone too far.

He felt nothing for the brother whose companionship he seemed set to loose. He spared no emotions, bar resignation and indifference toward the one who had constituted an integral part of his life thus far. Maybe given another lifetime, things would have been dissimilar, better, between them, but not here and not now. He was not one to mourn for things that never were.

However, the downfall of all is that we become too complacent; too well accustomed to the regularity and familiarity of our lives, so that we never, in the rudiment of living, really recognize its changeability. We never truly consider it being anything other than what it is: safe and monotonous, so that every fluctuation, when it dawns rocks the foundations of our world.

He told himself that the disbanding of their family was irrelevant, insignificant, and the conviction was sincere enough, but on some level, perhaps in the deepest reserves of insecurity, long locked away from conscious thought, he must have felt _something_. This was his brother, this was his family, this was the end of life as he had known it. Surely that penetrated beyond rivalry and opposition? Surely that meant _something_?

More _bangs_, _clanks_ and _thumps_ emanated from Sirius' chamber, but even those which sounded were too infrequent in their cause. As if the bulk of the packing required for extrication had already been previously performed … as if Sirius had intended this from the very beginning; goading the beast until it struck. Complete discharge, entire estrangement, were nothing to pull him unwillingly back to the house he abhorred.

Sirius could never nurse forced civility, he preferred open hostility; anger. In this, some would perhaps venture him sincere, but all Regulus perceived was a combatant personality, which was starved by piece. An incapable, cantankerous man who would one day offer offense to the wrong person, and therein, meet his demise.

The part of Walburga's heart which had once beat for Sirius had long since lain in shards, frequently trampled into dust. Regulus knew this. Had once watched the very glow of love seep from her eyes like molten silver, but without comprehending what it meant. What son did that to their mother? Broke her heart in twain. But Regulus had restored it, filled it with hope and pride once more, gave it something to beat for.

The bedroom door was slammed shut, sending shivers through the floorboards, before tempestuous footsteps started upon the stairs again. The echoing _thump_ of a laden truck being dragged forcibly behind, further endorsing their sound.

Instantly Walburga's tirade, which had in the last few minutes tapered off into fervent but comparatively hushed denouncements to her husband, ignited again. Sirius met her efforts with gusto. Their words were born of true loathing.

Regulus glided serenely back towards the window, gazing down upon the porch. Amidst all the clamor, the front door was thrown open, and light flooded out onto the steps. Sirius emerged, breath coming in ragged, angry bursts; chest heaving with the effort. He hesitated upon the brink for a moment as if undecided about proceeding down the steps.

Then, drawing himself up to his full height, he bellowed his parting sentiments into the night, before turning on the spot and disapperating.

Regulus watched with cold indifference, face ashen in the half-light; gazing out from behind the murky pane like some pearly apparition. Walburga's return fell upon deaf ears.

It was a while before silence reigned; a furtive silence, pregnant with ill feeling, like a prolonged series of aftershocks, proceeding the initial terror of the quake, fraying nerves and resolve alike.

Regulus was lost to reverie; staring blankly at the lavishly adorned wall which opposed his bed. Sirius was gone, and he felt nothing. Why? He almost wished for anger, grief or hollowness; a numbness which resulted from shock, rather than one which was the result of no feeling. _Anything_. But it was a wish in vain. Come the mornings light, Sirius would be banished from the family tree; ostracized. It was startling how little unconcern this truth was met with.

Blinking steadily, he returned unto reality. Voided eyes shining with admiration, lust and desire as they rested proudly upon the feature wall.

Headlines coined in horror, images depicting decimation and destruction; visages of what had been lost to revolution, reports detailed in poignant anguish and disgust, and desperate appeals for information concerning the whereabouts of the worlds most notorious, decorated three quarters of the walls breadth. A moving canvas of patchwork print.

It had taken him almost two years to compile such a grand tribute of his affiliation. What began as a hobby was now a devotion, an unceasing, obsessive employment. His family crest and pride was represented also, to the left, so that in the setting sun, the image was emblazoned upon a bed of fire.

To him, it was beautiful, an image of hope and aspiration. A move towards ideology. It filled him with warmth, compulsion and desire.

He had never understood Sirius' rebellion; his abhoration of such a noble cause. A world of wizarding rule, where those with magic were no longer subservient to the laws designed around _muggle protection_. No longer oppressed by the powerless mass, where those with magical blood were free and unrestrained, subject only to their own council. A world where the liberties taken by those of lesser stock were renounced, a world purged of impurity and desecration, so that the purest could flourish once again; while now they were starved. Where muggles, mudbloods, squibs, blood-traitors and other similar stains of dishonor were banished from false liberties and reassigned to their rightful place, while those of pure-blood took up their coveted position; the celebrated, the revered of their race.

His heart took a fit of excitement even as he envisioned it, beating frantically within the confines of his chest, threatening to break free, and his breath became sparse at its delight. No, he had never understood Sirius' opposition. Who would willingly reject sure an alluring representation of utopia?

The faded voices of long regurgitated arguments echoed within his mind, remnants from when the two brothers used to exchange words; albeit sparsely and heatedly.

_'You're condoning murder, Regulus! The murder of innocent people, of whole families. Their blood just as equally stains your hands as if you were the one to turn your wand upon them! Doesn't that make you feel any remorse?'_

Of course, Sirius' had been wrong. It was not murder, it was cleansing, it was pruning; dispatching the rotten leaves so that the healthier portion of the plant could thrive more wholesomely. But above all, it was necessary. There were casualties to every revolution, lives lost to the greater good. To wantonly call it murder was foolhardy. Murder was illegitimate and unjust, everything that this cause was not.

_'So you want to become a Death Eater, is that it? One of You-Know-Who's minions. Have your arm branded with his mark? Join the _noble_ cause? HA! See sense you fool and stand against him!'_

To which, Regulus' return had been: see sense you fool and stand _with_ him! The Dark Lord was an aspirational figure; a worthy patriarch; the glorious spearhead of a movement towards pride and purity. To bare his mark would be tantamount to an honor greater than all others, to act in his stead: a cog within the mechanics of revolution … the very thought of it was intoxicating, almost tangible.

In a year or two, when he was in possession of more promising height, bulk and magical prowess, he would go to the Dark Lord and pledge servitude. He would make his mother and father proud.

Even as he endeavored to quell the ghosted memories, Sirius' taunting voice broke through the walls of his restraint: '_You actually think that you'll amount to something. Ha! … What? Rise up through the ranks? Become one of his most trusted, his most _loyal_? Not likely! You'll be considered hardly better than his enemies, an expendable pawn to be ployed as he wishes. Be reasonable, once you're in it, you're in it for life. Are you ready to die for your beliefs Regulus? Because if you join his ranks, then your future is forfeit.' _Those sentiments were mutual, thought Regulus bitterly.

And now their shared part in life's narrative was spent, their stories as separate and opposed as they. While they were occurring, neither knew of the events which culminated in one brother being robbed of his life and the other bereft of his liberty. Only when the years had smoothed away resentment, did one brother fully understand and appreciate the sacrifices of the other.

Fatigued by the nights events, Regulus fell into the emerald swathed folds of the generous four-poster. His mural affronting him like destiny. The emblem of prestigious Slytherin casting melancholic shadows in the light of the wasted candelabra.

Then, smiling to himself, he parted his lips and muttered in an undertone the name and summons: "_Kreacher._"

The elderly house elf appeared at once, arms laden with treacle tarts, snaffled secretly from the larder, eyes alight with fierce excitement. He bowed extensively, his long nose brushing against the carpet, before Regulus invited him to sit.

Here was the true person whom Regulus identified as a brother. And here was a chance occurrence which had quickly became a custom, much to the delight of both parties.

Elf and man talked long into the night, to the ignorance of their family. Finding comfort and solace in one-another.

* * *

Imbued in one request were a thousand visions of glory and reverence. It was an honor, a privilege, but above all, a service which few with such engorged assurances of _his_ favor could render. This was Regulus' time, his chance to usher in a new age of notoriety for the Nobel And Most Ancient House Of Black. The Dark Lord needed … an elf.

That very necessity strained credulity at the least. That the Dark Lord, the most powerful wizard of all time should require the services of an elf was met by uncertain murmurings, hushed to little more than a breath. But while his associates could do nothing save shrug and sigh for opportunities lost, all the while muttering among themselves in meaningless drivel, Regulus had quailingly obliged.

Even just to stand in his presence was intoxicating; it inspired in all those loyal, a sense of perpetuating awe and wonder, but to be in receipt of his steady, unwavering regard! There were no words passionate nor ambiguous enough to deliver into universal terms the precise depths and duality of elation and fear which had assailed and all but incapacitated him in that moment.

Admiration seemed a weak and crude description when employed to account for his motivations.

It had been one year since he had joined the ranks of the Death Eaters and became a crusader of the cause: a cog in the forging irons of revolution. At just shy of seventeen, he was notably one of its youngest members; constituting one of a trio of adolescent idealists, dreaming big.

How proud his parents had been the day he had confessed to them his allegiance, brandishing the vibrant mark burned into his left arm, like a coveted insignia, writhing and undulating all of its own accord.

The war against the smirched and impure he had anticipated with relish, but the malicious battles which raged among the ranks in order to command their infallible leaders favor and commendation had been entirely unexpected. What crusaders fought against themselves as enemies? Though he could not deny the allure of their conquest, for fleeting figments of strategy also intermittently passed though his own mind.

But that was why this opportunity was so glorious: it was not granted by a road of betrayal, and yet it still yielded esteem.

A delicate _pop_ resounded in the stillness of the square as Regulus materialized into being upon the crest of the topmost step of Number 12 Gimmauld Place. Within, his home was cloaked in darkness, and the emphatic silence which hung over the square like a mist seemed to permeate through the walls and ensnare the sounds of living, bending them to its will.

With measured care, he pushed aside the embossed door and when the fractionate parting was just wide enough to permit him, slipped inside. The very tentativeness of his actions opposed his passionate and driven expression. Here was a man in the grips of violent agitation.

He skirted the central walkway of the hall, keeping always the to immediate right, where the floorboards were sturdier and less inclined to protest encumbrance. He didn't have time for explanations, the matter was of the utmost urgency, so he went to these frankly secretive lengths so as to avoid his parents detection.

When he arrived at the regal dining room, he neglected the candle stumps in favor of darkness. Crossing the abundant expanse in several bold strides, he arrived at a cupboard with no apparent purpose besides storing brooms and other oddments.

He rapped smartly, once, before whispering fervently in the darkness:

"_Kreacher! Kreacher, I need your help._" Eyes darting wildly in the shadows, like a cornered animal, feared of being overheard, he waited.

There came after what seemed an inexorable time, the sounds of mutable shuffling from behind the nondescript door, before it promptly lurched open and the elderly house-elf emerged from his swaths and blankets, blinking owlishly in the midnight hour, but as willing and eager as ever to serve his youngest and kindest master.

"Master Regulus?" Kreacher bowed deferentially. Regulus discounted the formality and with a countenance as wild as the sea when reveling in its own tempestuous wrath, asked succinctly:

"Kreacher, do you trust me?" The elf seemed confused by the manner of his question.

"Master Regulus has always shown Kreacher great kindness," he squeaked, offering another exaggerated bow, though the action would appear beyond his physical capabilities.

Surmising this tantamount to an affirmative, Regulus persevered, all the while struggling to suppress his potent elation so as to aptly gauge the house-elfs true inclinations.

"Then, I have a task for you, if you are willing?"

What would he do if indeed his friend were not? Would he force him, simply for the glory of aiding? And if he did, could he thereafter live with himself for the action? When knowing as he would, that he had acted against a friends will, a creature whom by rights they were bound to protect, just as he was bound to serve. He preferred to think that he would not have, but the truth was, he didn't know for certain, and that scared him. What was more important?

"Kreacher is willing." His frail chest swelled with pride at the prospect of being of service.

"The Dark Lord requires an elf, Kreacher, and I have volunteered you. It is a great honor for the both of us." Kreacher visibly paled, his waifish skin momentarily matching the hue of his toga.

For an instant, Regulus faltered, before, focusing solely upon the conviction of the house-elfs prior consent, he steeled himself once more, working to banish the repugnance of guilt.

"Though you must be sure to do whatever the Dark Lord orders, and it must be done_ exactly_ as his orders demand. Then, once your task is completed, return home with all haste."

Kreacher bowed one final time; a parting gesture.

"Kreacher shall do it master Regulus." And with a distinct crack, that rivaled the sound of a wand backfiring in the otherwise, loud and pregnant silence, the elf was gone, and Regulus was left alone.

Like a statue cast from living ivory; indifferent to the comings and goings of the world, he stood for the better part of a half hour, discomposed.

As the raw infusion of honor, pride and desire slowly ebbed into affected feeling, he realized, belatedly, that the Dark Lord had proffered no details concerning the house-elfs appointed task, nor the time period within which Regulus should reasonably expect it completed. But needs must. He had pledged his servants service without preamble, consumed by glorious ideals of subsequent distinction and indispensability.

Even so, an indirect disquiet grew in the back of his mind spreading like a diffusing toxin. It was one thing for he personally to willingly and devotedly serve such a revered master and crusader, but quite another thing entirely, in the absence of express consent, to lightly pledge the servitude of another; of a friend, in the conviction that they could not, in reality, refuse or defect upon the grounds of free will, even despite them being ignorant to the concepts of wizard warfare. None of this had Regulus even considered, during the sparse interval which separated thought and voice.

There was still the same notoriety to be won, the same honor in the actionable performance, and to be redeemed, the same kindled hope of self-won favor; setting one apart from the mass. But there was something else also, something not so virtuous, something he could not put his fingers on, despite his best efforts.

When he did eventually betray signs of life, other than the delicate ascent and decline of his chest, it was only to blink dazedly as one startled from and dream, and to take up seat at the grand dining table, which far surpassed his small families requirement, a memento of more august times. He would wait for Kreacher's return.

The first hour elapsed with an air of relative calm: it would be folly yet to look toward Kreacher's return, Regulus had reasoned to himself. The second passed a little more tersely, the impatience of not knowing, fracturing his calm reserve; was it still too early to expect Kreacher's return? The third gave way to increasing agitation, which demanded the distraction of pacing. Had something gone awry?

But, so far as he knew, Kreacher was with the Dark Lord, the most powerful wizard of all time. What could have possibly gone awry in the company of one so awe inspiring? By this logical alone, Regulus was heartened.

He rolled the stiff muscles in his shoulders and neck eliciting three appreciative _pops_. Then, raising his wand, he wordlessly summoned a bottle of butterbeer: the rich liquid like a balm to his residual unease.

It had been just over a year since he had joined the ranks of the revered and embraced greatness, except, the measure of his success was relative and alterable to perception. Had it really been all he had expected? Yes and no.

Here glory was not in conforming, but had to be earned through grand feats of loyalty and prowess. He was loyal to the core, but somehow, that had never seemed to be enough. He had not risen through the ranks as ideals afore depicted, certainly he was a cog in the war machine of revolution, but he was no more than that. An expendable fraction as easily usurped as replaced. He hungered for renown and favor.

The practices they preached for preserving purity he had ironically found harder to perform and stomach when personally required to practice them. What before had elicited in him a sense of satisfaction, now only heralded reserved repugnance. How did the eyes of a child look more joyously upon the prospect of killing than those of the man? Was there even such a things as purity killing? Ask him a year ago and he would have said yes, ask him now and uncertainly fractured silence would be the only answer.

He still remembered with haunted and noisome clarity, the day he had raised his hand to steal a life with its motion. His comrades calling boisterously for his deliverance, to the rear. His victim an old man, frail, disarmed and helpless; perhaps a father, a grandfather. Every detail of his wrinkled visage was superimposed upon Regulus' mind. He could see it every time he closed his eyes. Fearful and desperate, the elderly man had raised his head enough to utter a single syllable; 'please.' And then Regulus had done it; pretending that the man was begging for death.

He had done so under the shaken conviction that it was necessary, but was it really? Or was his patriotic cause nothing more than a string of rash and violent deaths? Though it was sullied and smirched, was it not still wizarding blood that they were spilling, that very same lineage they were vowed to preserve? Muggle-born's and half-bloods needed to be stripped of their liberties certainly, but of their lives? Surely, fighting against ones own kind, in a constricted sense, was not conducive to sublimating another?

But then, he had sworn himself into service willingly and with his eyes open, he had known exactly into what murky grounds he was venturing, or … had he? Where was the rose-tint hue in which he had cast aspiration? He just didn't know anymore.

Oftentimes, the things we anticipate most and embellish with luster, desire or excitement, turn out to be quite the adverse; full of disappointment and repentance of ever having entertained the notion.

He still hungered for that vision of utopia which had originally spurred his actions unto this purpose, still regarded his master with the profoundest depths of admiration, respect and devotion; still passionately harbored the beliefs upon which he had been raised, but sometimes it seemed that reason was lost in the fight. That the very people who claimed to usher in its dawning, rejected this vision in favor of torture and death, reaping elation.

Sacrifices had to be made, lives would be lost, orders would be issued that would not necessarily appease all who were bound to follow them; such was the nature of revolution, but frankly he was daunted by the duty which now was his to perform. A wand in an army of weaponry.

Retaking his seat, he closed his eyes, allowing his head to fall back over the lip of the chair so that he faced the ceiling, and sighed. How long had it been now?

The sky beyond the translucent panes was slowly renouncing its impenetrable and broody cast, not quite so indifferent and stoic as it had seemed upon his homeward journey. Though dawn was still but a distant glimmer to the devoid hour.

Waiting was the worst part of any venture, but waiting in the absence of knowledge for one who was cherished and foolishly sent abroad, to return, rung significantly more unbearable. With piked interest, he wondered whether his mother and father still fretted over the safety of their beloved son when _he _was abroad performing the Dark Lords bidding, or whether they; convicted in their belief that he was well enough able to take care of himself, found the necessity of such worry negligible. It was an intriguing thought, but once again, one only brought about by self-experience which forced consideration.

Four hours stumbled by in dilatory significance. Their slow passage suffused with meaning and insecurity. Then, with an almost tangible morbid humor, their number graduated into five and proceeded to amass in eager hesitation until their company surpassed six and struck an unwavering, unabashed course towards seven.

The first beautiful and virtuous rays of golden light were just beginning to blink beyond the horizon, when a feeble _pop _resonated through the stiff silence, rending the solid air.

Wheeling round and settling his eyes upon the devoted house elf, Regulus knew instantly that something was horribly amiss. His expressionate relief and gratitude instantly degraded into fear.

With eyes veiled to the living world and his entire body racked horrifically with violent tremors, as if they were the throes of death, Kreacher stood bowed. From his throat emitted a noisome chocking-gasp as desolate as a world purged of water. His lips formed soundless words, the same plea reiterated obsessively, and all the while he appeared to glimpse malicious apparitions in the void.

Even as Regulus stared, arrested from action by a prevailing sense of horror and numb shock, Kreacher wavered and swayed, threatening to collapse. What had he done?

Unshed tears blurring his vision in what was a short-lived reprieve, he caught the elf as he fell. Kreacher quailed in his arms as he lowered him delicately to the ground, laying him prone. Confusion and repulsion emanated from Regulus in waves. _This_ is what he had consented to? _This_! But how?

What caused Kreacher such unbridged distress? What was he supposed to do to help? Regulus just didn't know. Panic spilled through him like a boiling vat of polyjuice; warping him into a shade of the man he knew himself to be; a being beyond his haughty, rational self. An acrid taste seeped into the back of his throat, where it lingered like an enduring memento of betrayal. To what torment had he willingly resigned his friend?

In such close proximity to the pitiful creature, half cradled in his arms, Regulus could just about discern the weak strains of his voice, though it fluctuated in clarity. Through all the hazy confusion and repellant shock, come one word to combat the fortifying hopelessness:

"Water." It's utterance was weak but paramount, a desperate implore for salvation, a fleeting prospect of life.

Heartened by Kreachers plea, he eagerly raised his wand and summoned to him a glass, desperate to do anything to alleviate the house-elf's so evident suffering.

Muttering '_agumenti_,' he carefully lifted Kreacher's head and brought the glass to his lips, urging any cosmic force sympathetic to the plight of man to spare his friend. At first Kreacher gave no response to the satisfaction of his request, sightless eyes roaming wildly behind concealing lids, lips still soundlessly appealing. For an instant, Regulus despaired and believed it was too late, his stomach plummeting with dread and repentance, sickening him.

But then the house elf seemed to stir, straying into a moment of lucidity. Seizing this last glorious and insubstantial opportunity, Regulus forced the cold rim to breech the barrier of Kreacher's rigid lips, spilling a fraction of its liquid into his mouth. If this yielded no improvement …

… Nothing … and then, Kreacher swallowed convulsively. Gasping around labored breaths, he hungered for more; in the grips of an unsalable thirst.

Overcome with joy, Regulus once again delivered the liquid, his hand shaking tremulously, the supply unable to equal Kreacher's demand for it.

With each mouthful the horrific symptoms seemed to recede. Glazed eyes slowly shed the veil of unreality, renouncing the vision of spectral memory. The tremors steadily lessened and eventually desisted altogether. The labored gasps; screams of the dying, tapered off into even, if shallow, breaths: preservers of the living. And appendages ere too weak for self support suddenly seemed to gain a fraction of their owed vigor.

It necessitated three refills to adequately satisfy Kreacher's thirst, and with each subsequent request, his voice grew stronger, until his state echoed that of his former self.

How could the Dark Lord have allowed this to happen? What could have possibly maimed a house-elf traveling in the company of the worlds most powerful wizard? It was as if sense and reason had been siphoned from the series of events which had culminated in this result. Something was, and remained, horribly amiss.

Mindful of the very prominent reality that he had, in all likelihood, just redeemed his friend from the slavering maws of death, Regulus aided Kreacher into a sitting position, before requesting, in a tone of forced calm – submersing his desperate necessity for answers:

"What happened, Kreacher?"

Distress ensuring, Kreacher rocked back and forth shaking his head as if to dispel the very memory of what Regulus requested divulged. His great bat-like ears flapped in high animation and he moaned pitifully as if the mere prospect were like a physical brand upon his skin.

A slightly manic cast of desperation prevailing, Regulus performed the one action from which he else wise refrained: he submitted to the house-elf a direct order.

"Kreacher, you must tell me everything."

The result was instantaneous. Kreacher drew in a shuddering breath and drew himself uncomfortably erect, and though he quailed at the mere recollection, as if speaking about them made the horrors worse; harder to bare, his voice was strong and purposeful. Similarly regimented and descriptive, it charted its own course through the progressive seas of information he was bound to impart.

A strange and degenerative kind of trepidation seized Regulus in those last sparse intervals of ignorance, which segregated truth from words: an obsessive yearning to know and understand, coupled with a firm conviction that such knowledge was to be, for a healthier psyche, avoided. What he desired to know was exactly that which he did not.

"The Dark Lord is a bad wizard, master Regulus! A very bad wizard!" The too and fro motion of the house-elf's head increased to a nauseating frenzy as he unwillingly confessed.

For the second time that evening, horror twisted in Regulus' stomach like a knife, leaving him both hot and cold, poised and weak. Surely, there must have been some mistake? The Dark Lord was imposing certainly, and quick to anger, but both attributes were nothing beyond the founding of a driven leader, a necessity for change; their influence painted throughout history, in the instigators of new order. But still … there remained a shadow resistant to his conviction, was it doubt?

"Kreacher went to the Dark Lord just as he was ordered, but the Dark Lord did not speak to Kreacher, did not tell him what he was to do. So Kreacher waited.

"The Dark Lord took Kreacher to a cave at the edge of the sea, and beyond the cave was a cavern, and in the cavern; a lake, black and silent. And still the Dark Lord said nothing to Kreacher." A haunted look overcame the house-elf's features, as if his great round eyes were seeing before him once again the same horrific entity.

Regulus listened with morbid intrigue, hungrily devouring the information while equally dreading the next words to grace hearing. It was like standing the last seconds of your life upon the precipice of certainty, steeling to take the plunge and subsequently have the very seat of assurance wrenched violently from your soul. He felt a chilling, dreadful anticipation; the hairs on the back of his neck prickling unpleasantly, and those upon his semi-exposed arms standing erect, defenders against a perceived onslaught.

"There was a boat, as white as bone, which took Kreacher and the Dark Lord to an island, and on the island was a basin filled with green liquid. Turning to Kreacher the Dark Lord finally spoke. He told Kreacher to drink it. So Kreacher did."

And then, Kreacher seemed to shatter and resolve into dust, as if something within him had been indefinably destroyed. Tremendous sobs of unrestrained woe and anguish wracked his frail frame, smiting out any utterances he gave beyond moans. Relinquishing his head to the cradle of his arms, he proceeded to rock back and forth, back and forth as if he sought to comfort himself. To sooth inconsolable experience. The sight was pitiful and distressing.

Sentiments of repugnance echoed prematurely in Regulus' mind, tolling like the bells of revelation. Had it been this ghastly liquid which had reduced Kreacher to his near-death state? Had the Dark Lord known the effects it would render? _Had he_? Or were Regulus' rapid thoughts erroneous?

Slowly Kreacher regained his composure in the absence of Regulus' imparts of continuity.

" … Kreacher saw … terrible things. Terrible, terrible things! His insides burned … burned like fire. Kreacher wanted to stop, but the Dark Lord ordered him to drink, and Kreacher must do exactly as the Dark Lord tells him. So Kreacher drank, and he saw and he burned until all the liquid was gone."

Regulus felt physically sickened, and the sour taste of bile flooded into his mouth, even as the agony of betrayal twisted it's legion into his heart. This is what he had done? He had volunteered his friends for torture? But he had not known! … but that was no justification either.

Then, a new train of thought derailed its predecessor. Exactly what kind of a leader was he serving? Was all which he had believed, askew?

"Then the Dark Lord took out a locket, placed it into the empty basin and refilled it with green liquid. Kreacher called for help, but the Dark Lord only laughed. Then the Dark Lord sailed away, leaving Kreacher to burn on the island. Kreacher needed water so he crawled to the edge of the island and drank from the black lake … hands, dead hands and faces came out of the water and pulled Kreacher under. Kreacher fought against them, but they were too strong. Everything went black, and Kreacher remembered Master Regulus' command and so he came back."

Kreacher gazed up at him with inscrutable eyes, which were suspended halfway between the innocence of a child and the ageless suffering of an old man.

Regulus, meanwhile, had lost the capability of breathing as every event of the past year ran through his mind in rapid succession, though each now rendered in a novel and startling cast. How could he have been so foolish?

Of course the Dark Lord had known what effects the potion would render. Of course he had intended to take Kreacher to his death. What he had really required was not an elf, not a living, feeling being with a capacity for love and fear alike, but a creature he surmised to be expendable on whom to trail this potent and unwholesome concoction. There had been one outstanding condition of strict adherence though, Regulus could see that even then, it had been necessary that the creature be basically humanoid.

Regulus could perceive it all now, through eyes disenchanted. The brilliance and twisted malice of his plan. A clever deliverance of empty excuses that would be questioned by none, and least of Regulus. No-one would know – _would have_ known that the Dark Lord had a secret, that he was concealing something from his most loyal and trusted. The only thing unavoidably taken into confidence would perish certifying the strength of his defenses … Except, Kreacher had not perished. He had come back. And so now Regulus knew. The concealment was breached.

But what part did the locket play? And to what ends? Evidently _that_ was the very object for which such violent defensive measures had been instigated, but why? Was it valuable? Was it coveted? … _Maybe_ … but he could not dispel the notion of something more, something beyond the superficial identity of a trinket.

The Dark Lord's defenses were less accorded to preservation and more to guardianship. There was some measure of entrenched possessiveness about the lengths he had gone to in order to prevent another wizard from procuring it. The Dark Lord was not a sentimental nor compassionate being, therefore, it was unlikely that the lockets allure was purely aesthetically, and otherwise, had to be practical.

But … the lengths to which he would unconcernedly venture to achieve his ends … Regulus suppressed a shiver of fear, which laced down his spine like liquid ice. His masters actions reeked of desperate fervency, a nucleus need to witness and ensure the performance of his desires delivered, and a cruelness indifferent to those souls played like instruments or else caught up in the crossfire.

All who served him regarded him with equal portions respect and trepidation, and even in the case of a select few; infatuation, but never before now had Regulus really, truly regarded him with undiluted fear. The Dark Lord was suddenly established as an unknown quantity – the king in a precarious state of affairs. It was possible, but was it probable that he was the player of two motives?

The Dark Lord's cruelty towards Kreacher repulsed him, sickened him with the bitter combination of anger and injustice. Strictly speaking, he had never viewed the house-elf as inferior or subservient; he had grown up with him as a friend ere he ever understood the notion of servitude. To have him treated in such an abusive and horrendous fashion physically pained him. To know that he himself had ignorantly consented to it almost reduced him to tears.

It was ones civil duty, or even humanistic duty to protect, nurture and guard against exploitation, those who could not willingly defend themselves. To have such responsibilities desecrated and smirched by one who believed himself better and above those … oh.

_One who believed himself better and above those of lesser stock_.

A horrible sensation gripped him; the burn of white hot ice liquified into flame. Though he founded his moral pedestal with haughty remove and individualism, in reality he was no better.

Had he not grown up to imbue the same prejudices and discriminative urges as the Dark Lord embodied and subsequently nurtured in his followers? Had he not for eighteen years past apportioned those with diluted blood statues to a derogatory class? Had he not reveled so delightedly in the movement which would restore them to their rightful place beneath him and other wizards like him?

The Dark Lord and he, were two faces of the same coin. Identical carvings bound for the same purpose. No shade of virtue separated them, nothing beyond an infinitesimal millimeter at their hearts. Was that scant distance enough to harbor humanity or an askew morality? Was there hope? He was inclined to vouch not. Reviewing every aspect and crossroads of his life through the scope of narrow clarity, he saw no evidence of either. He was exactly as those who he oppressed painted him; a soulless monster.

Forcing himself to repress this train of self-destructive thought with an iron will, he gazed sadly upon Kreacher; the innocent in this entire sordid affair. If humanity touched him not, why then did he lament the creatures suffering?

In the handful of intermediate minutes proceeding his regaling, Kreacher seemed to have regained his composure somewhat. Surrounded by the familiar furnishings of his home, he grew calm and controlled once again. For an instant Regulus both marveled at and envied the resilience of the house-elves.

"Kreacher, I need you to listen to me. This is important." The house-elf grew instantly attentive, his faith in Regulus so endearing. Still willingly he listened to the one person who had sent him blindly to a fate of unimaginable torture and otherwise certain death. "You must stay hidden. Do not leave the house."

He infused as much command into the imperatives as his heart could bare. It was paramount that no-body learned of Kreacher's escape. What he had learned that fateful night concerned Regulus greatly. Its revelations made the world seem no more than a persistent if infirm hoax.

"Kreacher will not disappoint Master Regulus," he vowed with emotion.

After seeing Kreacher safely to the nestling folds of his cupboards abode and fighting back sentiments of guilt for leaving him, especially now, so vulnerably alone, Regulus made for his chamber.

Deception was necessary upon all fronts to protect and ensure the interest of their lives, which had so abruptly been staked. Just as the Dark Lord must not learn of Kreacher's escape, his parents must not learn of Kreacher's brief servitude unto another, higher master. The preservation of each and everyone of their liberties and existence depended upon it. How had things become so warped? How had he wound up being the covert leader and garrison in a shrouded war for their very lives?

He would not be like the Dark Lord. He swore in oath then and there. Conditioning and susceptibility did not matter, what mattered was choices, and he chose now to stand against all that he had endeavored to become. If there was no ore of humanity retained deep within his heart, then he would forge its equal from baser matter.

Being the sole beneficiary of Kreacher's tale, the responsibility encumbered him; he would discover the root of the Dark Lord's guarded affairs and he would thwart him, or else perish in the act of trying.

He abruptly arrested his ascent, stumbling down a step or two when confronted by the momentous magnitude of the proposition and pledge. His whole world had shifted in a single night; everything he thought he knew had been tried and proven false, subsequently decimated beyond want of measure. He realized only now how he had gotten in over his head. Why the elderly face of his first, but not only victim, haunted him so persistently – it was because, deep deep down in the most desolate and remote regions of his mind, he knew that it had been wrong: that it _was _wrong.

He wanted out, but one did not just simply hand in their resignation to the Dark Lord: being a Death Eater meant servitude for life. Therefore, there were only two viable options; misery or slumber. But could he do it? Could he penetrate the stronghold of the most powerful wizard the world had ever paid homage to? Either way, if he attempted it, come success or ruin, it would almost certainly and ultimately mean death.

He paused for an infractionate second, winning a fleeting reprieve from his wild and chaotic thoughts. It disturbed him how easily he disputed with calm rationality, the nature of his probable death. He laughed, for his only other option was to submit to the herald of mania.

He had been backed into a corner on account of his own blind devotion and he had not the skills to camouflage his exposure. The coming battle was not as it claimed, it was rotten and beguiled to the core. Not even his vision of utopia was worth the senseless slaughter of witches and wizards branded with no greater fault than being born into a family devoid of blood purity. A world founded upon their tortured souls was hell whichever way one viewed it, and so he wanted no part.

It was his duty to try, but yet he was so _afraid_. Certain safeguards would have to be implemented to protect those whom he loved. He was doing it for them, even if they did not know it, and that gave him courage when all natural reserves were lacking.

First he needed sleep, but after that, his efforts would not cease until the Dark Lord's secret was shattered. When considering the motives of a man so evil – for now he perceived the truth, whether the revelation was too late in coming or not – the answer to this enigma surely resided in the dankest and most repugnant regions of magic. All he had to do was find it.

Upon entering his chamber, he was affronted by the faces of a hundred victims baring down upon him like slavering hounds of death; families, friends, and those now forced to face the world alone – faces which characterized the words of persecuted misery even in their captured instant of elation.

Each set of eyes beheld him in accusation; sullying his hands with blood – echoing the man of dawn, repulsing the man of dusk. He felt life's brief frame close in around him, strangling the very air from his lungs with untold violence, he could not bare it.

In a spell of avid emotion, he tore down the entire right had quadrant of the mural, actions embodied with horrific disgust. He was not that man anymore.

The son who had always strived to attain his parents approval was now set to disappoint. He abhorred irony.

* * *

For three days and nights he had searched without respite; staving off the effects of exhaustion and famine only to be rewarded with nothing. A fey mood had taken him, culminating into a restless energy which only gave steel to his abstinence. His mind had swirled like a void filled with midnight horrors, the disturbing aspects of his study finding home there in the festering depths.

During those indistinguishable hours he had exhausted almost every possible avenue, with a fervency that did not waver, and drawn a blank. Dark magic he had known, reveled and lavished in, but all the while he could not slake the conviction that this was something more than just common evil. The usual spectrums of black notoriety were too timid.

Then, as the fourth day waned, he had found it. Amidst the disillusionment of fatigue endorsed hallucinations, one thought had came to him, piercing the veil: what were the very worst things one could do with magic? Murder. Torture. Remove ones rights to free will … All existed as crimes against the fabric of humanity, but of them murder was the most abhorrent.

He knew from bitter experience the very effect murder wrought upon the soul. How with a single utterance and a simple noisome action which did not befit the atrocity, it was cleaved in two; one portion all but dying with the stricken, or so it felt: withering. Murder dehumanized a person, decimating all fleeting modicums of compassion, morality and virtue, until there was nothing remaining but evil to fill the void, smiting any brief hopes of redemption beyond attainment.

Lieutenant to the first, had came a thought just as piercing, just as arresting, just as urgent, as if heralded by some omniscient hand beckoning him toward clarity: and what do the revered; terrible and inspirational alike, desire above all else? Power. Dictatorship. Legend. Remembrance. Immortality – wait … that was it!

Every revolutionist or crusader of change yearned for their respective ideologies and actions to endure, live on in immortality even after they had succumbed to the bitter smite of death. What if the Dark Lord had gone one further? What if he himself sought to endure, to live on in flesh and bone immortality … ? It made perfect sense, like the proverbial pieces of some long elusive puzzle dominoing into place.

Realization had come to him like a whisper from beyond the veil, one word; Horcrux. The locket was a Horcrux.

He had not in conscious memory been able to account for the information's origin, but yet it was there all the same; comprehensive and true. While other systems had fallen into hibernation, starved of sustenance, his mind had only grown more acute, as if it were the sole organ of his being.

Horcrux … The splitting of ones soul through the practice of murder, for the purpose of imbuing the severed fraction into a separate and independent body; an object – for safekeeping. An insurance against death itself, an unnatural anchorage to the mortal world.

Regulus had been wrong. Murder was not the very worst thing one could do with magic.

For the Dark Lord, destruction of the body would be meaningless so long as the soul fragment endured. While the Horcrux survived, outside of knowledge, outside of attainment, the Dark Lord could never be defeated, his regime never usurped and his tyranny never brought to justice.

He had pledged with every fiber of his being to thwart the Dark Lord's effort or die trying, and since the last lonely days of his life already affronted him, their fleeting number wasted, there was left only one feasible and viable option, a single course of action … steal and destroy the locket.

The monument of a such a definitive reduced him to rigidity. But what better time had there been to act than immediately, when delay and study would have afforded him no advantage, and were more attuned towards detriment. Even then, surrounded by the comfort of a life he had always known, he had felt the pressure of time and opportunity encumber upon him, as if knowing the true nature of the trinket somehow wagered a limit upon his actions to secure it. Graduated its perverseness beyond what ignorance could surmise.

The knowledge raged like a fire within, threatening to betray him and engulf the small window of chance which served his course – seeping like a poison into his bloodstream, relishing the minutes proceeding death. Not even the Dark Lord's most loyal, most _trusted_, were privy to what Regulus Black had disclosed unintentionally.

There and then, he had taken to hand a quill and parchment, and tearing the sheaf in twain, divided his heart. Upon one half he penned only cold and unsettling truth, and upon the other, comforting lies, which, if all went ill that night would serve to protect his family.

It was the distinction between the man nature had schooled and the man who truth had elected.

Then, raising his wand, he had flourished it wordlessly and transitioned chaos into order. His room already seemed to echo the indefinable absence of its inhabitant.

Finally, with the slow deliberation of a man taking stock of his assets before division, he had repaired the mural, if only to further his fraudulent representation. The very sight of it made him sick. He laid the fictitious note at the center of his desk, where it solemnly awaited the eyes of his parents. It was equally a poor tribute, and the only safeguard he could afford. There were a thousand things, if given the time, he would have sought the opportunity to impart upon them. The most prominent of which would have been an apology. But secrecy was paramount.

He did not fear death, rather he welcomed it as liberation, as freedom; even more acclaimed when he could orchestrate its exact moment of occurrence, when he could cheat fate. For the first time ever, he was going to be fully in control of his own destiny. His mindset adhered purely to practicality, leaving little room for irrationality.

He wasn't stupid. He knew he would not make it out of this alive.

Logic and will prevailing, he had proceeded to perform an action reprehensible: theft. Graduated in repugnance by the fact that it was from his own family. Only necessity had given him the strength – he needed a substitute.

In the drawing room of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place stood an embossed display cabinet; augmented with heirlooms as long-serving as the family Black itself. Almost concealed among the ranks of chalices, various items of silverware, antiques and other more miscellaneous oddments – each and every one relics of bygone era's – lay a single locket. The solemn legacy of a distant aunt, twice removed.

With guilt gnawing away at his conscience like a ravenous ogre, he had taken it; imbuing the second note within its core. Every preparatory action was then observed.

He had succeeded to infiltrate the kitchen, and slating his feral hunger with a loaf of rapidly staling bread, he proceeded once again to expect and command too much. And upon that occasion, his guilt was only further enhanced by conscious awareness.

His every thought and action thereafter were pervaded by an elated recklessness, which edged the lurid cast of madness. While equally, he had never before perceived such clarity within his own mind. Never had he known with such conviction the path he _must_ take.

He had conscripted Kreacher's services, striving all the while to valiantly dismiss the extent to which that course echoed its fateful predecessor. For only the third time in eighteen years (and all occasions recent) he had imparted upon the house-elf a direct order: to take him to the Dark Lord's cave, and it's sable river beyond.

Even if he would have thereafter lived a hundred years, he never would have forgotten the expression upon the house-elf's face, despite the fervent desire to do just that. Pity, fear, distress and anguish, all forged into one visage of inexorable devastation. As if Regulus were already nothing more than a memory to him.

Kreacher had gazed adoringly upon the face of the slim, dark-haired youth, who had always shown him such kindness. The one to whom his loyalty was owed, then and eternally, sensing an unsettling disturbance in his character.

However, he had obediently stretched out his hand and taken in its grasp that of his young masters, feeling the tension which defined him even in their brief and sparse contact. Then, fixing their destination firmly in his minds eye, they had disapperated.

Surpassing the tempestuous deeps with their assailant briny scent; lecherous, numbing, cold and writhing in constitution – and conquering the blood sacrifice owed to the ante-chamber for the purposes of progression with as much tenacity and abhorrence as just such an obstacle demanded, they now found themselves traversing the still and unwholesome waters of the Black Lake.

The loud silence was almost deafening inside the chasm, which even in its terrible magnitude seemed too small to contain it, full of malice and dominion. Everything was pervaded by a constricting blackness, which seemed somehow denser, more impenetrable and certainly perverse, than natural darkness. The only sources of illumination – brief respites, like the wan flames of a candle in the halls of death – were emitted from Regulus' wand-tip, falling shy of its typical range of penetration, and in the form of an eerie phosphorescent glow which emanated from the lakes heart: a diseased virtue.

The walls and ceiling of the cavern were lost from sight in the unfathomable expanse. And like a hostile native, the darkness seemed to close in ranks around the man and elf, an unslayable force. It was the perfect setting for a conquest that would see one redeemed soul pitted against the shade of another.

Their bone-white boat moved soundlessly across the glass surface, propelled by its own instruction. The waters did not so much as shiver when the prow sliced through them. Everything about this location was unnatural; warped beyond the usual realms of constitution. It was ungraciously disquieting.

With a morbid wonder, Regulus gazed over the edge of the cramped vessel. His own visage stared back at him, perfectly preserved, as if looking into a mirror. For that brief instant he was a fourteen year old schoolboy again, full of ambition, gazing beyond the window of his chamber on the night which altered his family dynamic forever.

What would volatile Sirius think if he could see him now? What would he say if he knew? Regulus had never cared for nor sought his brothers approval, but now, here, at the end of all things, he could not help but wonder. After all, against the odds of ignorance and desertion, Sirius had been right.

After an infinitesimal time, he began to look _beyond_ his reflection, into the translucent depths. He knew what lay beneath the surface; inferi. He had surmised enough from Kreacher's tale. It was not the darkness he need fear, for that was all it was; a canvas for imagination. What he feared bided its time placidly below, and resided upon the island of Kreacher's regaling. Death was nothing but falling asleep, it was the promise of pain and fear incarnate which made him recoil.

From the starboard side ghosted into view, the warped and waterlogged corpse of a raven-haired woman. She floated peaceably a foot below the surface; pallid, engorged. Her ebony locks stirred as if caught in a breeze, visible in the opalescent glow her skin exuded. Equally eerie and horrific, her eyes open wide; white voids of absence.

Regulus blanched, emitting a small strangled cry, whispers of the walking corpses did not do justice to their true terrifying and unsettling visage. It was like gazing down upon the regurgitated spoils of death. He remembered Kreacher's words; '_hands, dead hands and faces came out of the water and dragged Kreacher under,_' and unwillingly he envisioned wasted limbs forcing him into the immobile depths. From that fate there would be no redemption, no saving grace for the boy who had turned too late into the light. Phantom touches caused shivers to snake down his spine.

Before the night was spent, those he now cursed he would call brethren, he would join their ranks, one and the same, another tortured soul not even afforded peace in death. That was his road, but conviction did not make it any less daunting.

Everyone died alone: it was the single greatest voyage one undertook, and the journey would not suffer passengers. But not all who sailed, crossed the harbor in solitude; some walked hand in hand with their loved ones, dragging their feet so as to delay their ultimate separation for just those few stolen and precious moments longer, until the dock shrunk beneath their steps, and those whose time was still yet to come were forced to turn back. As unmanly as the image was, he wished it with all his heart.

Consumed by a sudden swell of emotion, he gazed down upon his one _true_ friend. The creature who had been there to share in every second of his lifetime, the one who would unwittingly accompany him to the end, and thereafter bare his legacy. He was overcome with gratitude and sorrow as one, the closer the island drew the harder the prospect of saying goodbye became.

Kreacher was knelt at the prow, his back turned to the water and its horrific bounty, focusing intently upon the small patch of ivory wood visible between Regulus' feet. He shook violently, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso as if he sought to comfort himself, muttering fervently and shaking his head.

Comfort was long lost upon Regulus, but even through the veil of forsaken anguish, he found an enduring modicum of love and compassion. _He_ was taking the easy road; the one to oblivion – it was Kreacher who still had to go on.

Infusing every unspoken sentiment into that one single gesture, which seemed a crude tribute, he reached out and clasped the house-elf's shoulder, squeezing it bracingly.

"It's okay," he assured with perfect calmness, "everything will be over soon."

The phosphorescent glow became engorged and ever more prevalent as they converged upon it, waxing and waning like the steady thrum of a heartbeat settling upon the watery void. Every instant seemed only to graduate it in malevolence. Maybe, sometimes it was better to blunder into a situation eyes closed than approaching it willingly with full disclosure. Sometimes knowing what lies ahead was the very worst part.

An unbidden tear trailed slowly across the plain of Regulus' cheek, unashamedly and unobserved in the velvet blackness. He mourned pre-emptivly for the way in which things would end; full of violence and unrest, but most prominently for his family. That he would never see their faces again with mortal eyes, hear their laughter with living affection, or just observe the normal customs of living with they by his side.

The truth was the hardest thing to bare; that he had never gotten to say goodbye, that in the last precious days of his life he had determinedly defected their companionship and conversation, the their last testimonial memories of him would be the most unworthy, the most oppositional and repugnant to his true nature.

His lungs ached for one more breath of fresh air, his eyes for one more glimpse of the sky; for every inconsequential experience he now wished he had taken the time to appreciate. Suddenly they seemed to important, missed opportunities of an incomplete life. Already it seemed his senses had never known anything beyond darkness.

But even as he wept, he grew stronger, more determined; as if that single tear absolved him of all regret: one of the dying mans last rights. The pallid vessel thumped lightly against the island, the sound quickly claimed by the dense blackness. There was no going back now.

Laying his hand upon Kreacher's elbow to bolster his movements, Regulus aided the elderly house-elf onto the glittering stone, endeavoring to still the boats oscillating motions. Then with great care and abrupt weariness, he alighted himself, moving slowly so as not to touch the waters and thereby awaken the wrath of its captives.

At the center most point of the island stood a basin, mounted upon a stone pedestal, and from within emanated the ghastly green glow.

Kreacher stood as far back from the construction as the small circuit of of smooth rock would comfortably permit, an expression of phantom pain warped his features as the memories of his torture resurfaced.

Regulus moved closer until he could gaze down into the garish depths. It was like staring down an adversary before the inception move was made. The image screamed unnatural, potent and dangerous as nothing previous. It was liquid indeed, though it did not stir; more eerie than its housing lagoon, and completely opaque. It did not reflect his visage, nor permit any view of the locket it imbued.

Regulus knew without trying that the potion would never submit to a will which attempted to siphon or transfigure it, only by one method could it be reduced: the way the Dark Lord had designed. Drink.

Hands resting upon the rim of the basin – barely an inch above the luminescent potion – he could feel the fortified structure of inflexible air, unyielding to any hand which approached absent of a goblet . He closed his eyes, though it made little difference in the darkness and drew in a steeling breath, preparing himself for the final and most difficult farewell. The only one he would make in person.

"Kreacher will do it." The house-elf's voice was no more than a whisper in the close air, full of trepidation and fear, but none-the-less, resolutely determined. "Kreacher will drink the potion."

Regulus felt his throat constrict with emotion, and it was all he could do to refrain from weeping until the slow decay of time claimed him for its own. The gesture touched his heart, bolstering that weak spark of humanity, so recently born, and now made it shine out all the clearer. A vibrant flame of virtue, which meant he was separate from and superior to the one whom he had called master.

He knelt before Kreacher so that the two wear equals, and placed a quailing hand upon each of the thin and withered shoulders. He smiled, the most true and honest smile that had ever graced his features. It made him look handsome.

"No. Not this time Kreacher. But there _is_ something that I need you to do for me." He spoke clearly, enunciating carefully, aiming to impress upon his faithful friend the import and necessity of what had to be done. Endeavoring to instill in his limited words the impression of a thousand different sentiments.

"Kreacher will do anything to help Master Regulus."

"I know it."

He reached inside the pocket of his traveling cloak and extricated the counterfeit locket; it was cold to the touch. He proffered the pendant, awaiting a sign of recognition to lite the house-elf's eyes, and certify his theft as that mush more abhorrent. It never came.

"Take this, and when the basin is empty, exchange the lockets."

Kreacher took to hand the trinket, examining it minutely. Meanwhile, Regulus could abstain no longer; hot tears leaked forth contrary to his will. It was just too hard, he wanted it all to be over. At the droplets delicate and soundless fall, Kreacher looked up, and anguished realization broke upon his face as water breaks against rock.

"Then you _must_ leave here – without me. Go home … and do not ever speak to mother and father of what I have done. You must find a way, Kreacher, find a way to destroy the first locket. It is of paramount importance. Do you understand? Never let it out of your sight. Never lose it from your possession. Do that, for _me_."

He fought to master his erratic breathing as it degenerated into sobs. Strived for bravery and inspiring composure right until the very end, but love betrayed him. Stripped of all impression and bravado, he revealed who he truly was inside; a lonely teenager, faced with an impossible decision, where electing to do what was right demanded the ultimate sacrifice. All his life he had been running, and now there was nowhere left to go. All his life he had been manipulated, but now he stood alone. He had won the battle, but he would lose the war.

"K-Kreacher u-u-understands." He could barely speak around the imposition of his anguish.

Regulus had removed his free will, but no house-elf had ever looked more capable of contesting an order than Kreacher did in that moment.

Now came their parting; the last and greatest farewell of friends. The moment neither wanted to accept as the end, but to hold onto forever, delaying the inevitable. But impossibilities were just that.

Abandoning all sentiments of pride, which would have entailed so much more fitting an end to the man who defied Lord Voldermort and sought to destroy him from within his inner circle, Regulus threw his arms around the house-elf: life long friend and equal.

"Goodbye."

He then arose, summoning to him an augmented goblet with a masterful flourish of his wand. Filling the goblet to its brim, he brought it to his lips, hesitating for the briefest second. Prepared for the frightful assailant images and thereafter unrestful death, he drank … and knew no more.

* * *

_Thank you very much for reading :)_

_ - One Wish Magic_


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